Illusion
by Beaubier
Summary: A night out with the boys turns into a perpetual nightmare for Northstar, thanks to a mutant called Maya. Story is complete! Rated R for a reason, mes amis. Or a few reasons, more like.
1. Chapter One: Boys' Night Out

CATEGORY: Drama/Action  
RATINGS/WARNINGS:  This is now rated R, but not for anything in the first four sections. They're fairly wholesome, as fics go. Things get more and more disturbing, violent, and sexually explicit as the story progresses however. Bear in mind, it's a story about a gay man, so yes, that means "slash" at one point. It has it's function, so try and be open minded, but consider yourself warned. And please, this is _not a slashfic. SUMMARY: Jean-Paul finds himself the victim of a strange mutant called Maya. Nightmares and insomnia plaguing him, he must find a way to break free of her influence.  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Northstar. Pity. Nor do I own any of the other X-Men. I'm not making any money. I swear.  
NOTES: This is starting out fairly happy and all, but it gets quite dark before it's over. Just another JP fic from your friendly neighborhood obsessee. Will try and update a few times a week, until it's all over. And I've no idea how long that will take, but I'm sure I will feel quite accomplished by the end. Mad props go to **Sue Penkivech** who once again braved my rough draft so no one else would have to. Worlds best beta. Soundtrack provided by: _

Air (Album: Moon Safari)

Oasis (Album: Standing on the Shoulder of Giants)

Coldplay (Album: Parachutes)

Ocean Colour Scene (Album: North Atlantic Drift)

_où sont tes héros aux corps d'athlètes  
où sont tes idoles mal rasées, bien habillées  
  
sexy boy, sexy boy...  
  
dans leurs yeux des dollars  
dans leurs sourires des diamants  
moi aussi un jour je serai beau comme un dieu  
  
Sexy boy, sexy boy...  
  
apollon deux mille zéro défaut vingt et un an  
c'est l'homme ideal charme au masculin  
  
sexy boy, sexy boy...  
_-Air, "Sexy Boy" [1]

_  
   
  
 _Chapter One: Boy's Night Out

                Jean-Paul sat, staring out his window, an expression of mild displeasure having settled onto his face so thoroughly that it seemed rather mask-like. Anyone who saw him, though no one would here in fortress, his beloved bedroom, might think he was, in fact, upset about something.

                They would be wrong, actually. He just tended to look that way, all the time. Even when he was alone.

                But eventually he shifted, waking himself from his reverie. And he wondered what on earth he'd been thinking of. He could not, for the life of him, remember.

                This always disgusted him, and now his chiseled features twisted up into a very distinct expression of annoyance. He had better things to do than stare out the window like some sort of goddamned teenager. Perhaps he was spending too much time with the _enfants in his charge. Perhaps. _

                He looked down at the papers on his desk, trying to recall what, exactly, he'd been planning on doing this evening. Last week's Wall Street Journal. This month's financial report from some tech company or another he'd be pulling out of within a week. A stack of blue books he'd be handing back, along with his trademark dirty looks, to one of his classes on Monday. A pile of old correspondence, in the corner, tattered and yellowed. Three large books on economic theory, all rejected as reading material for his class due to their highly… wordy nature.

                It made him sigh. Was this what his life had come down to? Paper and books. Money and stocks. 

                He hated sighing. It was decidedly feminine. And he may have been many things, including a lover of men. But he was nothing if not masculine himself. 

                He swore in his native tongue, and stood to move to his dresser. He tugged it open impatiently and found what it was he was looking for. A crystal blue bottle with a white label. A picture of the queen. Bombay Sapphire. Just the thing to get rid of this restlessness that was holding his concentration hostage.

                They said that drinking alone made you an alcoholic. Jean-Paul Beaubier wondered, as he started out the door and downstairs in search of a lime, if it was so even if you only did it once in a very great while. After all, even X-Men needed to relax, once in awhile.

                Or forget. 

                "_Guten Abend, mein Freund!"_ came the cheerful greeting from Kurt, sitting at the kitchen table, eating out of a carton of Oreo's and Crème. 

                Northstar nodded to him, "_Bonsoir." And continued toward the refrigerator in search of the elusive green citrus fruit, and his stash of Tonic water. _

                "Do you like ice cream?" 

                Jean-Paul paused. "It's a little… sweet."

                "_Ja,_ I believe that's the point," the fuzzy elf laughed.

                This time, he turned to face the team leader, and leaned back on the fridge, crossing one leg over the other. In perfect-fitting khakis, a light blue button down, and a dark blue sweater, the man looked like he was ready to be photographed for the winter J. Crew catalogue. 

                And he knew it, of course.

                He'd gotten in the habit of posing himself a long time ago, and did it now regardless of who might be watching. He did it when he was alone. 

                "I've never been a great proponent of dessert," he admitted, uncertain as to why he felt like engaging in this conversation. "The sweets… they make me sick to my stomach."

                "You could use some sweets, _nein?" The other man suggested, with a dashing grin and a flash of white fangs. "Might keep you from looking so sour all the time?"_

                He found himself smiling at that, albeit halfheartedly. Kurt's grin was rather infectious. "Oh? Am I looking sour this evening?"

                Nightcrawler shrugged, and his tail started thrashing lazily about below him, on the linoleum, as he took another bite. "_Ein bisschen. Just a bit."_

                Jean-Paul shook his head, still smiling a little, and opened up the fridge to commence his search for citrus. "Well then I suppose a lime wouldn't be of as much help as I'd originally hoped."

                "Ach, I see. Something a little stronger than ice cream is required tonight?"

                "Perhaps," Where _had_ he seen a lime around here…?

                A slight growl from the hallway, unmistakably the sound of a man called Wolverine, and he caught himself sighing again. 

                They'd never gotten along. Not that he'd ever gotten along with his other Canadian teammates all that well, either. Hell, he'd only gotten along with Aurora half the time. But Logan was… particularly irritating. Something about his voice… no, it was his clothes… no, no, it was that growl, definitely the growl…

                "You gonna be stuck in that fridge all day, Speedy, or can I get myself a snack?"

                Amazing how such a heavy man could move so silently when he chose. And why did he _insist on calling everyone by ridiculous nicknames? "I'll try and speed the process up for you, __mon ami," he answered dryly. _

                "Man can move fast enough when he's facing off with a super villain, but ask him to get his ass out of the fridge and he's not going anywhere," Wolverine rumbled, seeming to lose interest quickly enough. "What are you eatin', Elf?"

                The two of them carried on a friendly conversation behind him as he grew more and more exasperated with his search. He _knew he had seen a lime in here only yesterday… _

                "Gimme a bite of that. Damn, that's good."

                "_Ja,_ _und I got to it fast enough that there's still nearly half of it left."_

                "There _was_, you mean. Amazin' you ain't the size of that Juggernaut, Kurt, the way you pack this shit away."

                Northstar sighed again, closing the refrigerator door with obvious irritation. 

                "You done trying to air condition the whole kitchen yet, JP?" Logan half snarled, half joked.

                He turned to face the shorter, hairy man, a look of supreme distaste on his face. "My name is Jean-Paul."

                "Whatever you say, bub. Either way, you done?"

                He moved aside, making a sweeping gesture with one hand, "Have your way with her, Wolverine."

                "Always thought it was weird, the way you say that name…" he was rumbling as he moved to the refrigerator. 

                Logan may have been through much since he'd worked for Department H. But he was stunningly stable, for a man who was so utterly insane. Still bitching about the accent, after all these years. 

                "Kurt, if you know where there is a lime…" He was getting desperate. 

                Nightcrawler waved a blue hand vaguely at the other side of the room, "Try the basket under that cupboard, there were some oranges there earlier."

                He could see them clearly, of course, on the counter and immediately went to dig through the pile, finally coming up with the coveted green fruit. "_Merci, Dieu_," he muttered, tonic water firmly in one hand, lime in the other. Now, a knife…

                "Havin' a party?" Wolverine growled, now leaning on the fridge as he had been, but with infinitely less grace. 

                He knew better than to suppose the question was aimed at Nightcrawler. "_Absolument pas_," he shook his head, now digging through the silverware drawers. "Not a chance. Just trying to enjoy my Friday night."

                "Why dontcha' spend it with us?"

                He looked up, shocked. "Was that… a joke?" Astounding. The animal had a sense of humor.

                But Logan shrugged his brawny shoulders, and seemed, for the moment, to be utterly guileless. "Why would it be? We can go get a few drinks. Can't have any fun 'round here, with all the kids."

                "Are you suggesting that we go and imbibe mass quantities of liquor, _mein Freund_?" This from Kurt.

                Logan nodded, now with a toothy grin at his friend.

                "_Mein Gott. _A good idea!" He stood up and put the lid back on the ice cream. "Give me ten minutes, I'll be ready."

                They both turned to look at him, then.

                Jean-Paul found himself at a loss. "Yes, well… alright."

                "Great," Wolverine was already on his way out, "I'll meet you two out front in ten. Gonna' go see if anyone else is up for it."

                Kurt smiled winningly at him, "Sure you don't want some ice cream before we go? The look on your face is less than sweet."

                Jean-Paul arched one upswept eyebrow dangerously, noticing that the furry man before him seemed to have forgotten that he'd been eating out of that carton only moments ago. "Just… tell me you aren't planning on putting that back in the freezer."

                A quiet night. That was really all he was he'd been asking for. 

                And here he was instead with Kurt, Logan, and Bobby, in the middle of this smoky pool hall, cradling a glass of Molson and listening to the laughter of his teammates. 

                And really, it wasn't so bad. At least Logan had won the toss and picked the beer. Bobby and Kurt had filed their complaints, of course, but Jean-Paul certainly preferred Canadian beer to German or American. Though, to his credit, Bobby had at least wanted a red beer. Better than that nightmare that was Budweiser.             

                "I'm still fucking pissed that Warren didn't come. Jesus Christ, the man needs to relax," Bobby was soliloquizing on every person who'd ever passed the threshold of the X-Mansion at that point. "I mean seriously, I know Paige is cute, and we're all real happy she might make him happy, but Jesus Christ. We haven't gotten to hang out, just the guys, in ages.   
                Jealousy was an ugly thing, Jean-Paul mused. He wondered if Bobby realized that he was, in fact, displaying an abnormal amount of jealousy over Warren's budding relationship with Paige. But he decided not to mention it. God knew he was finally starting to feel more comfortable around the man. No need to light a fire under him.

                Comfortable… but no less attracted. 

                Of course, he'd known for a long time that god hated him, so that really came as no surprise.

                He took another long drink, and caught himself smiling. Eh, who needed god anyhow? The man hadn't done much for him thus far, let him hate.

                "What are you grinnin' about?" Wolverine was sitting back, chewing a cigar, smiling his big lazy smile.

                Northstar felt himself start to grin wider, "Nothing, just watching the fellow at the bar trying to pick up the bartender."

                They all turned to look as one, and he shook his head. Subtle. 

                "Whoa, she's hot. Goddamn, I'm getting the next pitcher," Bobby said, rather too loudly.

                "Maybe," Jean-Paul assented, taking another drink, "But he's hotter. Shame he's trying to pick her up, or I'd be picking him up."

                All eyes returned to him. 

                "What? Great hair, great ass, nice face. What more could you ask for?"

                And they dissolved into laughter. 

                And it surprised him. He hadn't meant that second part, the part about trying to pick the man up, to come out aloud. Not that he was afraid, and not that he wasn't open, simply that they were having fun, and he didn't want to create awkwardness. But he'd had a few, in fact, and really hadn't thought it through before he'd spoken. And that really wasn't the reaction he had been expecting. Awkward silence, yes, but not exactly friendly laughter and a hint that they didn't all think of him as the odd man out for being "the gay one." 

                _Perhaps, Jean-Paul_, he told himself, _you underestimate your teammates._

                "Yeah," Bobby was still laughing as well, "You're right, that's a great ass!"

                Kurt shook his head, "_Nein, it's just his jeans! That brand, it is cut to make him look good!"_

                Alright. Now he was astounded. Who the hell were they and what had they done with the X-Men?                 Aliens. Always with the goddamned aliens. Oh lovely, so was he the only one in the house still in possession of his real body? What about the Professor, the children—?

                "Hey," Bobby threw a companionable arm around him suddenly, scooting closer to him, the length of his thigh suddenly against his own. Alarming, how cold he was sometimes. "We're just joking man, you know that," he laughed and grinned at Logan and Kurt now, who were still chuckling.

                He turned, stunned and starting to feel a bit warm in the face, to see his fellow X-Man smiling at him cherubically. 

                Had he looked upset? 

                "Of course, Bobby, sorry if I looked confused. I just… didn't expect that reaction."

                Bobby burst into peals of laughter again and gave his shoulders a companionable squeeze, "Well neither did we. Damn, you ought to let that sense of humor out of its cage more often. I mean, you know, when it's not ripping one of us a new asshole."

                Jean-Paul knew he looked totally calm and in control again. He raised an eyebrow at Iceman, then turned to look at Wolverine and Nightcrawler across the table. "I might, if you keep bringing pitchers."

                "A Canadian knows how to drink!" Logan announced, sweeping up the empty pitcher and heading back to the bar.

                "Hey, it's my turn!" came Bobby's protest, as he slid away from Jean-Paul and put his arm back to use lifting his own glass to his mouth. 

                This was quickly cut into by Kurt with something in German that sounded vaguely threatening. The only world Northstar understood was "_bier._" 

                He assumed that the blue elf, though he was decidedly flesh colored at the moment due to his image inducer, and the Wolverine had been through this argument repeatedly. 

                But he found it entertaining, somehow.

                "So I told the guy I was from up north, and he says—" Logan was ranting on and on about something, drawing amused smiles and nodding heads from the other three men. 

                Jean-Paul included. But he really wasn't paying much attention, if the truth were to be told. He was trying to figure out how many pitchers that had been. Sometimes, the enhanced metabolism that came with his other gifts was a blessing. He wouldn't be drunk all night.

                But damn, if he hadn't gotten there fast. 

                Of course, the others were feeling the same. At least, Bobby, pink-cheeked and grinning had to be. Kurt was laughing constantly, which was good to see considering his recent angst spurt. And Logan was simply… growling less. 

                Jean-Paul knew, of course, that he could snap into growler mode at the drop of a hat, and it would be all the more feral for the amount of alcohol he had in his blood stream. But it had to take an awful amount for the man to be truly drunk. 

                "This kind of shit doesn't happen enough," Bobby was positively glowing beside him. "Seriously man, has anyone else noticed how piss poor our team dynamic is these days? Jesus, I don't even know most of these guys! We gotta fix this, it's fucking sad."

                "_Ja,_ I agree Bobby," Kurt was shaking his head. "I am used to being amongst friends, but lately I feel as if every conversation is strained. It was never like this in Excalibur, or in the old days with the X-Men."

                "That's what I'm saying," the younger man nodded emphatically, dragging his arm across his mouth to get rid of a little foam that had attached to his upper lip. "I mean, I know I'm never gonna be best friends with Alex, but god I don't _hate_ the man, we could at least be friendly—"

                "You sissies," Wolverine was laughing harshly now, "if ya wanna make nice, make nice. Ya sit around and wait for someone to talk to ya, and you're the ones who ought to go do it if you're bothered. Instead you cry inta your beer about it. Ya feelin' estranged from Warren, Frosty, go talk to him. Ya wanna get to know Jean-Paul, you ask him to have a beer with ya. I know I'm not the master of interpersonal dynamics over here, but Jesus Christ."

                Bobby just stared at him for a minute. "Interpersonal dynamics, Wolverine... Wow. That's a mouthful." 

                "Yeah well, I been talkin' ta Hank lately."

                "Ohhh," the other seemed to understand now. 

                He had a point, though. Not Bobby (thought it was quite a mouthful, that much was true,) but Logan. It seemed that lately, everyone at the X-Mansion spent all their time being… sorry for themselves. He hadn't thought of it, of course, because it happened to be one of his favorite activities when he wasn't being irritated by something, but still… it was hardly healthy. And considering the inhabitants of the house, they really ought to be far more concerned about mental health.

                The conversation had moved on though, by the time he came back to it, and he found it was focused on him. 

                "Earth to Jean-Paul," Bobby elbowed him. "You with us, man?"

                "Yes, sorry, what did I miss?"

                Kurt turned to look at the bar again, "that man has been gone for an hour, what are you staring at?"

                Jean-Paul flashed his brilliant smile at his teammate, "Just staring, really."

                "Had a few too many?" Logan laughed, scratching at his mutton-chops and almost leering.

                "Or not enough," he shrugged, still smiling winningly. 

                _Mon dieu,_ how did it even happen?

                One moment, they were all laughing, happy, discussing completely innocuous subjects and, as Logan had said, "Makin' nice," and the next there was a woman pointing a gun at the bartender. 

                The place had nearly cleared out, it was well past closing time. The four X-Men sat in their booth, all facing the bar. Two men in the corner were wrapping up a game of pool. The smoke hung thick and low all around them. A woman sat at the bar, paralyzed with fear, next to a man who had his head resting on his crossed arms on the bar as if asleep. The lights flickered. 

                Wolverine stood, slowly moving toward the bar. 

                The bartender, the beautiful redhead with the tight t-shirt, was crying silently, her face pink, her arm held tight by the other woman. A tall, gorgeous woman with long, purely black hair, beautiful golden skin, and strange violet doll-eyes. She wore all black, and her fingernails were a dark, gothic purple. Northstar noticed this because they were digging into the soft flesh of the bartender's arm, causing a strange contrast against her white skin. And thick, red blood was coming from under the nails. 

                "Ya picked the wrong bar, on the wrong night…" the short, stocky Canadian was growling.

                "No, Logan wait," Kurt said quickly, with enough authority to make the man stop. 

                The dark haired woman, who obviously had not bothered to notice them in the corner before, darted her glance to the four men quickly. She looked them over with a practiced eye, and then looked back to her quarry, obviously thinking four unarmed men no threat to her. There was something about her… something that said she'd done this before. The way she held the gun, the way she was standing, feet shoulder length apart, shoulders back, eyes all over the place. Confidence. Pure confidence oozed from her.

                Jean-Paul disliked her even more now.

                "Northstar," the mention of his code name attracted his attention, from Kurt, "can you take care of it?"

                He nodded once, though he knew moving so fast when he was so intoxicated was about to make him a _very_ motion sick mutant, and was on the dark woman in a flash. Before anyone could see what had happened, he had grabbed the woman, taken her gun, and dropped the ammunition onto the ground. He slowed down then, jerking the woman toward him, and threw the harmless gun to Kurt.

                Well, at least he didn't feel as if he'd be throwing up. The contents of his stomach were shifting a bit restlessly, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

                And, to his great shock, the woman wasn't fighting him. She let him pull her off the bartender, who collapsed into a heap immediately, and allowed herself to be moved near to the exit, where he assumed they would be taking her next. He watched carefully, holding her by the arm, though not nearly as roughly as she had held the redheaded woman, as the two men playing pool in the corner and the woman still sitting, thunderstruck, at the bar eyed him suspiciously, and Kurt vaulted over the bar to check on the bartender. In a moment, he stood, woman in arms, and appeared to be talking to her. 

                Jean-Paul looked down at his charge, and found her staring up at him. He narrowed his eyes reflexively. She had this look to her. Sharp angles on her face, piercing violet in her eyes. The contrast with her copper skin was astounding, really.

                And he began to panic. Because he couldn't look away. 

                Heart, in his throat. Thumping. Every muscle in his body, tight. Pounding. Caught. Claustrophobic. 

                Her hand, her long purple nails. She reached up to his face…

                There was a flash. And then, Jean-Paul Beaubier saw nothing but darkness

  


* * *

[1] _Where are your heroes with bodies like athletes  
Where are your rough shaven, well dressed idols  
Sexy Boy Sexy Boy  
Dollars in their eyes  
Diamonds in their smiles  
One day I too will be beautiful like a god  
Sexy Boy Sexy Boy  
Apollo, perfect x 2000, 21 years old  
The ideal man, masculine charm  
Sexy Boy Sexy Boy_


	2. Dream the First

Dream the First

                _Mon Dieu, it could not be happening again._

_                Again? Had it happened before? No… no not exactly like this. But something like this. Something like this…_

_                He held his sister in his arms, so much dead weight, standing at his own door. She'd only just arrived, wearing nothing but that pink bikini. Close cropped dark hair, terror in her eyes. He had not seen her in so long… so long…_

_                And she'd collapsed, into his arms. And here he stood, holding her, like a baby. He thought he should yell for help. Hadn't he yelled for help last time?_

_                But when he looked around, it was dark. His living room had vanished. And all he had was Jeanne-Marie, in his arms. _

_                No. No, this wasn't right._

_                He sat down, held her in his lap. "Wake up, sister," he whispered, hearing the desperation in his voice. _

_                Her face. Her beautiful face. So pale. Hungry. Dieu, where had she been? She'd been with Walter non? Living with Walter…_

_                "Jeanne-Marie, please… please…" Panic. Begging. He hated feeling panic. He hated begging._

_                 But she was utterly unresponsive. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her face was growing ashen._

_                No. No, it hadn't happened this way. His eyes began to burn. He hugged her close now, holding her frail form to his chest, feeling her skin grow cold against him._

_                "No," he said it aloud this time. "No, Please Jeanne-Marie, look at me. Look at me, sister. This is not right…" his eyes began to pool up as he noticed the desperation in his own voice. And the salt water began to drip now, sliding down his cheeks. _

_                He held her tighter, but she was getting so cold. _

_                "No, please. No…"_

_                But he knew, somehow. She was dying. She had come all the way to his door, wanting to be saved. And she was dying here, in his arms. _

_                When had she gotten so thin? _

_                When had she gotten away from him?_

_                If only he had not said such things to her… such things in his jealousy, in his stupidity…_

_                His heart was thudding, his cheeks were wet. His head felt so hot. So hot._

_                He held her like a baby again, and looked at her face. Her sweet, innocent face. The color had faded from it completely, it was a dull, lifeless grey. __"Jeanne-Marie… I'm so sorry. Je suis désolé, ma soeur. Je suis désolé.__"_

_                Suddenly, his heart stopped entirely._

_                Because she smiled, a horrible, toothy leering smile. And opened her eyes._

_                Not the blue eyes of the Beaubier twins. No. _

_                Shocking, virulent, purple._

_                Maya._


	3. Chapter Two: Insomniac

Chapter Two: Insomniac

                He felt a light, soft pressure on his forehead, like a kiss really, and his eyes snapped open. 

                Annie. 

                She smiled down at him, the glow of the fluorescent lamp illuminated her head so that she appeared to be a dark-haired angel. 

                But _sacre__ mere… his head. "Annie…"_

                She put a hand on his forehead, smoothed his hair back. "I'm glad you're awake Jean-Paul. How do you feel?"

                Slowly, he pushed himself up to sitting. He was in the infirmary, stripped down to his boxer-briefs, and under a linen sheet. He let it fall to his lap as he put a hand to his temple, rubbing at it with great agitation. "As if I've been hit by a truck. Or a hundred."

                He could hear the smile in her voice, "You drank too much. And then that mutant - that woman - she did something to you. Do you remember?"

                A moment's thought. 

                _Jeanne-Marie!_

                His heart was in his throat again. He could remember how she felt, in his arms. How cold.

                No. No, that hadn't happened. It had… so long ago. But not like that. He shook his head, trying to emerge from the dream-confusion. "She touched me, I know that. Then… nothing. I had… dreams."

                The nurse cocked her head at him, "Dreams?"

                "It's nothing," he waved one hand at her, not wishing to talk about it. Some dreams, nightmares, he did not need to relive. "How long was I out?"

                "An hour or so. Kurt is with the other woman, the bartender. He said you might be interested in joining him there with her?"

                "She's alright?"

                "She's fine, Jean-Paul." A pause here, where she considered him very seriously for a moment. "You, on the other hand, actually _look _as if you've been hit by a truck. Maybe you should stay here until Hank—"

                "I'm fine," he interrupted, but gently. He appreciated her concern. She was a friend, one of the few he had these days. But he did _not _want to talk about the dream, or what had happened. It just felt too… real.

                He swung his legs, slowly over the side of the bed, and slid off the table, unconcerned about his state of undress. "Don't worry about me, It's probably just the beer. Thank you for taking care of me," he took one of her small hands in his and squeezed it gently before proceeding to a chair in a nearby corner, where he saw his clothes. 

                He knew she wasn't buying it. But he also knew that she respected him enough not to plague him with questions. He heard her busying herself as he put his clothes on, and then turned to face her. Her back was to him, she was fiddling with some electronic monstrosity or another on the counter. "You say she's with Kurt?"

                She nodded, "Yes. And you'll have to see Hank, as soon as he gets back."

                "What happened to… her?" His breath caught in his throat, thinking of her. He'd almost called her by a name. But, whatever it was, it was gone now.

                Where the hell had that come from?

                Annie turned now, examining him closely, up and down. "She got away, Jean-Paul."

                She got away. From Nightcrawler, Wolverine, and Iceman. 

                She got away.

                He was still not entirely sober. And probably would not be for some time, really. He stopped for a cup of coffee in the kitchen, finding it blessedly empty, and then proceeded to find his partners in crime. His eye caught the glow of a clock, sitting on one of the counters, before he slipped back into the hallway. Five AM.

                How foolish of them. Acting like children, like boys in college. What had they been thinking?

                Of course… if they hadn't that redhead would be dead. Not sitting behind this door, talking to Kurt in hushed tones.

                Sighing, he knocked lightly and turned the doorknob. What he needed was a good sleep, really. He'd feel much better, much less confused, after a good night's sleep. 

                The moment he stepped inside, he saw the girl stand, run to him, and promptly throw herself at him. 

                Shocked out of his dream-haze, trying not to spill hot coffee on her, he tenuously put one arm around her and patted her on the back. He lifted his gaze to his teammate, who was sitting on a chair, back in his natural blue state, covering his mouth. But his yellow demon eyes were laughing, and his shoulders were shaking just enough. 

                "Thank you so much, Northstar!" She gushed from his chest, her face buried in his sweater. "If you hadn't been there…"

                "Then Nightcrawler would have taken care of it," he finished, uncertain how to disentangle himself from her without being rude. But really… what was he supposed to do with this?

                "Jean-Paul Beaubier, meet Bridget Bain. Bridget, here is your knight in shining armor, in the flesh," Kurt managed to stop laughing and compose himself long enough to speak. 

                Northstar shot him an icy glare, followed immediately by a pleading look. 

                "Nice to see you up and about, _mein__ Freund." Was the only word from Kurt, who was obviously enjoying the scene. _

                "Yes… nice to _be_ up and about. Please, _petite_¸ it is ok now. Are you alright?" He used his questions as an excuse to release himself from her arms, and turned her face up with his unoccupied hand to look at her. 

                She was, indeed, beautiful. And young, to be sure. Grey-green eyes and freckles splashed over her white cheeks and forehead generously. Her hair was a wreck. Her eyes puffy, and somewhat bloodshot. But still, she was a pretty girl.

                "I'm ok," she sniffed.

                "Just a little frightened," Nightcrawler smiled, and Jean-Paul was amazed at how gentle a fanged smile could be. "I was just going to show her to a room for the night. We've decided its best if she stays with us, until Wolverine and Iceman are back from the search."

                "They're still out there?" Annie hadn't told him that.

                He nodded, as the girl finally let go of him once and for all, and stood back, looking somewhat embarrassed. 

                He looked back at her, suddenly feeling like a cad for wanting to get rid of her so quickly. The girl had just had her life threatened. It may be a daily business for an X-Man, but certainly not for her. "Do you need anything? Are you hungry? A cup of tea?"

                She smiled now, though it still seemed rather sad on her tear-stained face. "No, I'm ok. Kurt took care of me," and she shot her smile over in his direction now.

                He was on his feet, and executed a particularly cavalier bow in her direction. "Let's get you into bed then, and I will finish up with Northstar, _nein_?" 

                Nodding, she followed him out the door. "Ok. I am awfully tired…" 

                Nightcrawler winked as he passed Jean-Paul, and took the girl's arm. He continued to talk to her, soothingly, in a low voice, as he led her to a spare room.

                Maya. Apparently, the mystery mutant's name was Maya.

                He'd known that. Somehow. And that fact wasn't helping him get to sleep.

                Restless, he shifted in his bed, rolled over onto his stomach. He mostly slept on his stomach anyhow, always had, but he'd tried that for about a half hour already and it wasn't working. But then, neither had his side. Or his back. 

                He simply could not fall asleep.

                Maya Patel, in fact. A recent graduate of the University, and leader of a feminist group known as _Deviyaa_. Nightcrawler had filled him in on the details after putting the girl away in her room for the night, and they were also not helping him sleep. It seemed that their little Bridget had been applying for membership to the feminist group, and was rejected in the end. For no good reason, according to the girl. But not before she overheard something that quickly made her realize that she would not want to be a part of such an organization in the first place. 

                He sighed heavily, buried his face in the down pillow. It was simply too light out, perhaps. And he'd had that damned cup of coffee. That certainly wasn't helping. But sweet Jesus, his body ached from being tired.

                Ah, but the girls. They were planning, according to Bridget, to pull a rather large heist. To kidnap the editor of a certain campus newspaper, who had written a rather too exposing editorial on their activities. Kurt had not elaborated on what those were, and Jean-Paul was not entirely certain that he, or Bridget, for that matter, really knew. But, clearly, it was some sort of college politics nonsense. 

                However, the women of _Deviyaa seemed to take themselves quite seriously. Bridget, though she had once wanted to be a part of their activities, took her newfound information to the police. They had foiled the girls' plans, apparently, and Bridget had begun receiving death threats via email. She'd informed the police of this, and moved back in with her parents, but she refused to stop her life. Her job at the bar was paying her rent and fees, she was in school on a scholarship, and she had to keep moving forward. _

                So she went to work. 

                And the rest, as they said, was history. 

                Ridiculous, he thought, as he rolled onto his side fitfully, now tangled up in his sheets and irrationally annoyed by the sunlight that filtered through his heavy curtains. Little kids, playing games. Some girl has a mutant power to knock people out with a touch, she thinks she has a mission, she wipes out anyone in her way. Small time villains with a small time goal. She should never have gotten away.

                But she did.

                Bobby had returned as he and Kurt were discussing, looking like death warmed, or perhaps, in his case, frozen over. Wolverine had yet to return to the mansion. 

                Northstar had a feeling he would not until he was certain she was long gone, or he brought her back with him. 

                He squeezed his eyes shut against the light, making a noise of supreme irritation somewhere deep in his throat. It was Saturday. He could sleep all day, if need be. 

                But, in the dark behind his eyelids, he knew the real reason why he couldn't rest. Something was waiting for him there.

                He could still feel her in his arms. Jeanne-Marie, dying. He could feel the wetness on his face, hear his voice as he begged. 

                No. It hadn't happened that way.

                Jean-Paul flipped onto his back, kicking at the sheets until they were in a ball at his feet, and stared at the ceiling unflinchingly. 

                Perhaps he would be able to sleep if he spent some time in the Danger Room. Or with some kind of work out. 

                Or anything that would make him forget that smile. Those eyes. 

                They were _not_ Jeanne-Marie's eyes.

                "You look like hell," Paige furrowed her brow at him, over the top of his newspaper.

                He put the page down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't bothered to blow dry it after his post-workout shower. "Thank you for that observation."

                "Sorry, Jean-Paul. You're just always so… together," she shrugged, sitting across from him now with a plate of chicken salad sandwich and potato chips. "You boys drink a little too much last night?"

                He sighed at her, and immediately wished he hadn't. Good god, he hated sighing. "No. We saved a young bartender from being shot in the head by a crazed feminist mutant, actually."

                Paige's eyebrows lifted. "Really!" She commented around a mouth full of potato chips, "Sounds brilliant."

                "Oh yes, brilliant," he snapped. "And then the mutant touched me, knocked me out for a good hour, and I've not been able to sleep since."

                She swallowed, eyebrows still arched dangerously high. "So what's your excuse for the foul temper every other day?"

                He pushed the newspaper at her and grabbed his cup of coffee, standing to go.  "Foul company." And with that, he turned his back on her and started toward the door. 

                "Oh, come on Northstar, I'm just joking!" she called after him, in a highly amused voice.

                He, however, was less than amused. 

                The door was open, when he passed by, and he heard voices. He glanced in, casually, and saw her sitting on the bed, nodding at something a man on the other side of the room was telling her. 

                It was only a moment before he realized that the voice belonged to Bobby Drake.

                Of course. God forbid a woman should be in the house for more than an hour without being pursued by Iceman!

                No. That was unfair. Not to mention horribly bitter. 

                But god, he really was tired. 

                "Northstar!" She had caught sight of him and waved him in.

                Too tired, apparently. Wasn't moving very well. 

                But he answered her summons and came in to lean on the doorframe, sipping at his coffee. Bobby was sitting against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chest like a small child, looking rather pleased with himself. She was on the bed, smiling up at him. 

                "I was just passing by," he said, "thought I'd see if you were doing well."

                "Thanks, Bobby got me some lunch and I'm ok now," she answered, her glance darting over to the curled up X-Man on her floor. 

                "What's up, Jean-Paul?" he waved.

                Northstar nodded, "Bobby. Good, well if you need anything—"

                "Wait," she stopped him and took a deep breath, then glanced over at Bobby quickly. "I um… I wanted to apologize to you for… how I acted last night."

                Confused, he cocked his head at her. "How you acted?"

                "Yeah, clinging to you and Kurt like that," she was blushing now, and looking down at her feet. "I swear, I'm never like that. I was just…"

                "Scared," he finished, understanding now. She must be a shy girl, by nature. Shy, but from what Kurt had told him of her history, fiercely independent. Not the sort of girl liked to depend on others to solve her problems, perhaps. "Don't think about it, please. There's no shame in needing a little comfort after someone's held a gun to your head."

                Well, that had come out rather harsher than he'd meant…

                But she nodded, and managed to look back up at him again. "I'm ok."

                It seemed, for a moment, as if she was trying to convince herself, more than him. 

                "Yes," he told her, "you are."

                "And Logan's still out there, looking for that Maya chick," Bobby seemed unable to contain himself further. "We're going to get her, it's only a matter of time before she uses her powers again, and the Professor will find her."

                Ah, the Professor. And Hank. 

                Kurt had intervened on his behalf in the wee hours of the morning, but there would be no more putting it off now that he'd been seen up and about the house. He'd have to go and be poked, prodded, and talked at. 

                So. Tired. 

                Jean-Paul stood upright once again, "Speaking of whom, I believe I'm late for a chat with Monsieur Xavier."

                "Later," Bobby waved, grinning at him.

                The girl smiled at him one last time, and he caught a flash of that sadness in it again.

                As he wandered toward the library, he thought what a shame it was, that the girl had been forced to see that kind of ugliness. She would never be the same. 

                She'd be fine, of course. She was no girl, he reminded himself, but an intelligent, competent, capable young woman. She'd proven that to him just now, with her unnecessary apologies.  Hell, he half thought _he ought to be apologizing for being so unprepared and… un-heroic, in his treatment of her. _

                Sometimes, he was truly astounded by his own tendency toward heartlessness. It was sad, really.

                He did not have a fear of needles. But he wasn't particularly fond of them either.

                "Are you experiencing any side effects, Jean-Paul?" The large, furry Henry McCoy was asking him, as he watched his own blood shooting into the tube, as if of its own free will.

                "No," he answered quickly, annoyed with the entire process. But then, he thought for a moment, "I haven't been able to sleep. But we were drinking. A lot."

                "Ah yes," Hank rumbled, with a toothy grin, "so I heard! A shame I had to miss the grand event. Perhaps an MRI—"

                Now that, he did not think he could handle. "I don't think it's necessary," he was quick to point out, and was sorry he'd brought it up. He had better things to do than lay on a metal plate while magnets scanned his brain. No, thank you, not today. 

                Hank nodded, "I must say, you appear to be in perfect health, other than the dark circles forming under your eyes, and a bit of exhaustion." He slid the needle out of Jean-Paul's arm now, and turned his back, busying himself with putting the needle into the biohazard bin and preparing his blood for the centrifuge. "If the insomnia continues, please let me know. We do not understand the power of the mutant who touched you, and I fear she may have caused some sort of psychological rift that is keeping you from sleep." 

                He gave a quick snort, pressing gauze to the inside of his elbow now, "Her power knocked me out, Henri. I hardly think that insomnia would be a side effect of a power that, by nature, puts her victim to sleep."

                "Nevertheless," he insisted with another huge smile, coming back to the table with a band-aid in hand, "We might at least be able to give you something to help you sleep. I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of the situation?"

                Trying not to sigh, Northstar nodded, "Of course."

                He held up the bandage in a large blue paw, "are you healed, or would you like a Flintstones band-aid?"

                Jean-Paul raised an already upswept eyebrow, "I'm sure I'm fine."

                Xavier had taken one look at him, and told him to get to sleep.

                But he didn't want to close his eyes. In fact… he was feeling a little… scared about closing his eyes. Evening was coming on now, and he sat in the library, in a large, rather soft chair. He had his paper, and a cup of tea. Perhaps he could relax now. 

                _Dieu, but his body ached. His shoulders had knots in them, his legs protested now and then when he tried to make them do his bidding. It wasn't horrible, or unbearable. His muscles were just so… tired. Normally, he had uncanny endurance. But the alcohol had slowed him down, and he'd not had a chance to recover from it, so it felt like he'd been awake for 48 hours instead of the actual 36 he'd been through. _

                Twelve hours makes quite a difference, when you're tired. 

                So he flipped to the business section, took a sip of tea, and started to read. 

                And before he knew it, his eyes closed on their own.


	4. Dream the Second

Dream the Second

                _There was a spider. Crawling on the wall._

_                Small and black. A black widow?_

_                He didn't know. _

_                But something was very wrong._

_                It was cold in the room. Cold and dark and definitely lonely. Colder, for the fact that his costume was ripped in several places. And he was chained to the table. A cold, stone table. _

_                A figure stood above him, hooded, dark, chanting. Somehow… somehow he knew that it whatever was under that black cloak was not human. _

_                Trolls._

_                No. No, no, no, not again. This wasn't happening. This wasn't right. It didn't _look_ right. The room, it wasn't big enough, there was no ceremonial pyre, burning, no army of trolls. There should not be chains, he should not even be conscious…_

_                But yes. He was back there, again. And he was, in fact, unconscious, eyes closed. But he could _see _himself, somehow. As if watching from outside. And this time, there was no Alpha Flight reserve team coming for him. _

_                He knew that. He knew what was happening, suddenly, and that he would not be saved. This time it was the end._

_                So dark. So cold. _

_                Good god, why couldn't he wake up?!_

_                He watched, raging, impotent, and terrified all at once. The figure looked upward, arms raised, and slowly backed away from him, having finished his chant. His own disembodied gaze followed the troll's and he saw it… a pendulum._

_                No. No this is not right. This isn't how it happened!_

_                How what happened? It's happening _now.

_                With sick fascination, he watched the wicked blade of the think make its huge swipes. Back. And forth. Slowly sinking closer and closer to his body. _

_                Wake up, wake up, wake UP!_

_                But it didn't matter. He knew he wouldn't. No. He would be forced to watch as the shining thing sliced him in half, little by little. Would be still be able to see, when they began the feast? _

_                Sickness, rising up in him. _

_                No. Not possible. This is not me, it didn't happen like this._

_                The panic. The absolute horror of knowing that it's going to end. And that it's going to end painfully. _

_                He would never see anyone again. No one that he loved. Most of them had gone before, but if he could just… see her… tell her…_

_                He felt the air move, as it lowered, a mere foot from his abdomen. Felt it go by in a nauseating whoosh. Oh god. Why was it so cold…_

_                A spider. It crawled over his leg, he could feel it tickling. It rushed up him, over his belly, onto his chest. He could feel its legs through the fabric of his torn costume. A spider. _

_                And the hooded figure was still watching him, from below._

Ayez la pitié!_ Have mercy! __Why must be watch this?! Why must he see it?!_

_                This was not right. It had not happened like this! No!                _

_                Another whoosh of cold air over his midsection. The blade snagged his costume, this time. He was cut. Just barely. He could feel the blood, in a razor-straight line across his stomach. _

_                He was cut. God, oh god, he was cut. _

_                And he was about to watch himself, feel himself die._


	5. Chapter Three: No Weakness

_what__ tongueless ghost of sin crept through my curtains?  
sailing on a sea of sweat on a stormy night  
i think he don't got a name but I can't be certain  
and in me he starts to confide _

_that__ my family don't seem so familiar  
and my enemies all know my name  
and if you hear me tap on your window  
better get on your knees and pray, panic is on the way _

_my pulse pumps out a beat to the ghost dancer  
my eyes are dead and my throat's like a black hole  
and if there's a god would he give another chance  
an hour to sing for his soul _

_cause__ my family don't seem so familiar  
and my enemies all know my name  
and when you hear me tap on your window  
you better get on your knees and pray, panic is on the way _

-Oasis, "Gas Panic!" 

Chapter Three: No Weakness

                "Jean-Paul! Go to bed, already, you're shaking like a leaf!"

                With a sharp intake of breath, he sat straight up, back stiff as a board, eyes wild.

                "Christ!" Paige jumped back quickly, putting a hand to her chest. "My god, are you ok?"

                 He felt sick. All he could do was blink at her. Heart in his throat, his stomach in knots.

                "Jean-Paul…?" She came closer again, this time putting a tentative hand on his forehead, as if to check him for a fever. He looked up, nervously, and caught the look in her vivid green eyes.

                You would think she'd seen a monster. She looked afraid.

                Her hand was warm on his forehead, his skin was so cold. "No fever… Listen, why don't I get you to bed, and call Annie—"

                "No," he forced himself to speak, though it seemed a near impossible task. He reached up and took her hand in his, brought it back down to the arm of the chair. "No, I'm fine. It was… it was just a dream."

                Just a dream. 

                Deep breath, Beaubier. Just a dream.

                He pretended he was moving his other hand to his stomach because he was hungry. But really, he was checking. For the cut. 

                He could feel the blood, sticky on his stomach. He could feel it happening, the slice of metal through his skin.

                "You look sick—," she started

                "I feel sick," he muttered, under his breath.

                "I've never seen you look sick before…"

                "You haven't known me that long."

                She seemed to consider this. "Jean-Paul, if something is wrong—,"

                "I'm ok," he tried to look like he meant it. Met her eyes, somewhat fearlessly. Thanked god that she was younger, and might have some sort of respect for him on that basis alone. Anything. God, any reason not to have to talk about this… about that. "Really, Paige, I'm ok. I was just having a dream, that's all. And I'm cold."

                Slowly, she nodded, "Yeah, you do feel really cold," she squeezed his hand, and he was a bit surprised to find it still locked on to hers. 

                He let it go, trying not to do it too quickly. Be natural, goddammit. It was just… a… dream. "I just need some sleep, I think."

                God no. Not again.

                "Look," she started, settling back on her heels and looking up at him now, "I'm sorry I was picking on you earlier. You're obviously sick, I shouldn't have given you shit."

                "Forgotten and forgiven and what have you," he told her, trying not to rub at his stomach. 

                "You going to bed?"

                He nodded, "Yes, of course."

                "Ok then, I'll tell the others," she stood and turned to go.

                "Paige."

                She stopped, and turned back to look over her shoulder. 

                "Is Wolverine back?"

                She shook her head, and some of her blonde hair fell out of her ponytail, slid down to fall over her cheek. "No, not yet."

                He felt sick. So very, very sick.

                "Hey, why don't you let me run you a bath or something? I always do that when I'm not feeling well, and it helps me out a lot." 

                In spite of the sickness, he somehow managed a smile at her. And it was genuine. "Thank you, Paige. I think I'll go do that myself."

                "Sure you'll be ok?"

                Nodding, he lied to her, looking her straight in the eye, "Of course."

                He sat in the steaming bath, scented like green and cedar, and sipped his gin. 

                It felt good on his aching limbs, to have a nice soak. He'd have to do this more often. And the gin was good too, of course. Bombay Sapphire, his savior.

                If this bath, and the drink, didn't knock him out safely, nothing would. 

                He was being ridiculous. So he'd had some nightmares. Big fucking bother. He'd always had nightmares, since he was a child. Who didn't? 

                What he needed was to get a goddamn grip. 

                But he couldn't stop himself from looking down again, looking at his stomach, under the water. Completely flawless. Utterly intact. Perfect, sculpted torso, just like it had been forever.

                No cut. 

                It was just a dream. 

                He'd said it to himself a million times. But he could _feel_ it. Feel the cold stone through his shredded costume, feel the chains on his wrists. Feel that spider…

                He took another drink, and leaned his head back against the tub. No. Enough of this. He was not about to be afraid of some dream. Why his subconscious was choosing this moment to decide to dredge up all his past horrors, he did not know. But he was not about to become its slave. 

                At least, he thought that was the plan.

                He sat on his bed for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Warm, clean, relaxed. Inside and out. He knew what he ought to do was lose the towel and go to sleep immediately. Stretch out, pull up the covers, and fall asleep. 

                Only… he wasn't quite ready. He was developing something of a phobia, it seemed, of the inside of his eyelids.

                Instead, he dressed himself, and went downstairs in search of food. 

                He moved quickly, too quickly to be seen, in fact, past the TV room, where Paige, Bobby, Warren, Jubilee, Bridget, and Carter were watching a movie. He knew that Paige meant well, but he did not want to be mothered at the moment. He was torn between a strange sort of warm feeling for her and her attentions, and a need to shut everyone, everything out, and remain strong. 

                Something about admitting weakness to someone else made it far too real. 

                But standing in front of the refrigerator, he found himself less than inclined to partake of the leftovers there. So he opened the freezer, took out Kurt's ice cream, found a spoon, and decided to see what was so brilliant about it.

                "Jean-Paul."

                For some reason, he heard a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Jubilee's, saying "Busted!"

                Sweet Jesus, he really _was tired. _

                Slowly, he turned to face her. "Paige."

                She narrowed her eyes at him, and came nearer, so she could read him the riot act in a low voice, apparently. "I thought you said you were going to bed."

                He stood up a little straighter, and looked down his nose at her. He was very good at that look. "I changed my mind."

                Only slightly deterred, she shook her blonde head fitfully, "Seriously, you look like hell."

                He had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at her, from telling her to fuck off. And it only proved her point, really. 

                Calm down, Jean-Paul. It's only Paige. She's only trying to help. "I got hungry."

                "For ice cream?"

                "I _am_ a grown man, you realize," sharper this time.

                She felt it. She paused, and cocked her head at him. "Just don't kill yourself."

                He almost felt bad. "I did take that bath, however," he offered, as some sort of consolation. Why, he wasn't sure. But he feared he might be getting vaguely silly.

                She leaned in close to him, "Mm, yeah you smell great."

                "Thanks."

                "Come watch the movie?"

                He very nearly refused. But he thought again. What would he do? Sit here in the kitchen and try not to fall asleep in his ice cream? Go upstairs and finish the bottle of gin alone? As if his body needed the abuse…

                "Yes, I think I will."

                She grabbed a six pack of coke out of the refrigerator, which had obviously been her initial mission there, and led him into the TV room. Carton of ice cream and spoon in tow.

                The movie had been horrible. Some Eddie Murphy film that had everyone in hysterics. He tried to focus on that, and his ice cream. 

                It really was quite good. Kurt had been right.

                Carter scampered away after the movie. Bridget had gone soon after, looking tired and claiming a headache. Warren had left around ten, muttering something about business to attend to (Jean-Paul tried hard not to laugh when he heard that.) Paige was soon to follow, after shooting him a few more concerned glances, which he pointedly ignored. Jubilee crawled up on the couch with Bobby, and fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Bobby was laughing at Saturday Night Live. 

                And Jean-Paul sat in the corner, on his couch, trying to find it funny.

                Only, it really wasn't very. All actors, actresses, and bad writing from the Saturday Night live crew aside, he kept having flashes from his nightmare of only hours ago. And last night, for that matter. 

                At one point, he could have sworn he saw a spider crawling across Bobby's leg.

                He clenched his jaw against the fear, the weakness, and forced himself to stare at it, in nothing but the flickering light of the TV.

                Just a dream. 

                "You look like shit," Bobby finally said, when the show was over. He'd been making various comments all night about the merits of the various actors on the screen, quietly so as not to wake the sleeping Jubilee. But she was obviously a heavy sleeper. He probably could have taken her up to her room on one of his ice slides, acting like a trick skateboarder, and the girl would not have moved. Jean-Paul had made it a point to answer, albeit with the shortest answers possible. 

                He wanted to leave. He wanted to go to his room, to be alone. 

                But alone meant he would have to think about it. Might start to panic again.

                And he could still… feel…

                "Yes, so I've been told."

                Bobby looked at Jubilee, a very sweet smile suddenly lighting up his face, probably for how angelic she looked when she was asleep. Even Jean-Paul had to admit, she really did, even in the mildly disturbing glow from the television. Slowly, he slid out from under her, laying her down on the couch, and pulled her legs up to stretch her out in what looked like a comfortable position. He took a blanket from the back of it, and laid it over her, then tucked her in carefully.

                There was something rather touching about the act, really. Something fatherly and brotherly. Something people would usually think of doing for him, not imagine him doing for someone else. 

                Jean-Paul liked him best at times like these. When he wasn't playing some game, hiding behind some joke. When he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was beautiful, when he looked like that.

                "Paige is worried about you," Bobby had made his way to the other side of the room by the time he came out of his reverie, and was moving Northstar's legs forcibly off the couch to make room for himself. "And Jesus man, I am too. Why the hell aren't you in bed?"

                Oh god. _Et_ tu_…__? "I wasn't tired," he made to stand up, wishing for anything else to happen, anything at all that meant he wouldn't have to re-hash this in his mind, wouldn't have to fight to keep a hold on himself.  Wouldn't have to feel so weak, feel that fear._

                Bobby grabbed at his arm, and made it clear that he didn't want him to go anywhere. "Look, I know we're not best friends. And I know Paige isn't your mother. And I know Hank isn't your dad and Annie isn't your big sister. But seriously man, what the hell are you doing?"

                He didn't quite know why, but he turned around to face the other man rather than putting up a fight and walking off. Perhaps he was too tired. Perhaps he really didn't want to. Deep breath. Not a sigh. No sighing.

                Christ, he really _was_ getting ridiculous. "I just… felt like watching TV."

                "You _never_ watch TV. I wouldn't even know that you'd realized it existed, if I hadn't seen your face on it about five hundred times."

                "I'm going to bed now, if that makes you feel any better."

                Bobby actually rolled his eyes now, "Yeah, Paige said you were in bed tonight already. Two hours later you come into the room with her and a half gallon of ice cream. And since when do you eat ice cream?"

                "There was hardly any left—"

                "That's not the fucking point!"

                The last statement was so emphatic that Northstar really felt a bit… dumbstruck. Bobby's face should have looked cold, as the TV-light was oddly blue. But it didn't at all. The muscles in his jaw worked, and his nostrils were slightly flared, his breathing erratic. 

                _Good god, he's mad at me._

                "Why are you angry?"

                "Because you're being an asshole," Bobby made an irritated gesture with his hand, flinging it up between them. "Remember the other night, I was saying we need to be closer, we need to be friends, all of us? I seem to remember you nodding your head about that, Monsieur Beaubier."

                His accent was horrible. In a charming, American sort of way. Which, of course, would not have been charming a year ago. Not at all. "Yes, I remember."

                "So this is me, making a goddamn effort to take care of my friends," he raked a hand through his hair now, another gesture of irritation. "So you want to lie to me, tell me everything's fine, or you want to tell me what the hell is wrong with you?"

                For a moment, all he could do was stare. 

                Because, honestly, he didn't know _what he wanted to do. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew what he wanted to do, but he didn't think giving Bobby "the look" and swooping in for a kiss he would not soon forget would be entirely appropriate. Particularly not given the other man's decidedly straight status. But Christ, he was beautiful right now._

                "I… I'm just… tired." 

                Weak. So weak.

                But, now that he thought of it… he was _far too tired. He had remarkable endurance, after all. Could the alcohol really have drained him so much? _

                Bobby's lips thinned out for a moment, as he seemed to be deciding if he should hit him or ask him another question, when a sound from the lobby made both of their heads snap around to face the hallway.

                "Kurt and Logan," he realized, aloud. 

                And he was torn again. He looked back to Bobby, who was still looking at him, half irritated, half expectant, and then back to the hallway again.

                And he made his decision.

                "We should find out what's happened."

                Without another word, he stood, and walked into the lobby. As if he knew Bobby would follow. 

                And he did. But he could practically feel the dirty looks he was shooting at him, right through his back.

                Jubilee, as it turned out, was only a heavy sleeper when she wanted to be. The moment anyone was discussing a plan or a mission that was not originally supposed to include her, she was wide awake.

                "You have to let me do it!" She insisted, one hand on her hip, eyebrow raised dangerously at Wolverine and Nightcrawler.

                Logan, for his part, did not look remotely tired. But he looked dirty, ragged. He hadn't been back since the night before, when they'd left to go to the bar.

                Was it only last night… _mon__ dieu, why did it feel like so long ago?_

                "Paige can do it," Bobby said, shaking his head at her.

                Her pretty face twisted up when she turned her attention to him, "You've _got_ to be kidding me Drake."

                "She _does_ look a little older, Jubilation," Jean-Paul added. Not that he thought she couldn't do it. In fact, he thought she was a more likely candidate than Husk, if not for that one small fact, that Paige was older. He'd seen her acting abilities, and though she tended to be rather overdramatic, she could probably pull this off.

                "This is totally unfair," she shook her head, obviously trying to remain adult about this. "Look, if I take my hair down, put on some make-up, I swear I look at least eighteen."

                She may have had a point. But he knew who would really be the deciding factor here.

                They all looked to Logan.

                "If you think so darlin', and if Kurt's ok with it."

                "_Ja, I think it's a good plan. The rest of us will be nearby, listening to everything, there will be very little threat of danger to you," Nightcrawler nodded. "I will talk to the Professor in the morning, and we can meet to discuss the specifics. We have another day to think about it, before we must act, but I'm sure he will agree that this is the best way to find her and discover what they are doing without causing any damage. For now, let's all just get some sleep." And he looked around once, saw all of them nod, and turned to go upstairs.  _

                Wolverine made a low sound, a growl in his throat as he meandered away. He had obviously wanted to cause some damage today. Luckily, Kurt had been there to stop him.

                Or maybe not. He still couldn't lose the image of those eyes, looking out of his sister's face. Those horrible, purple eyes. 

                A hand on his shoulder. "You ok, Northstar?"

                Quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, he turned to see the girl looking at him. "Yes, Jubilee. I was just thinking."

                "You looked pretty pissed off," her brow wrinkled, and one delicate dark eyebrow arched. 

                "Just thinking about Monday, is all."

                She patted his shoulder now, and smiled, "It'll all work out. That Maya, she knocked you out pretty good huh?"

                Slowly, he nodded. "That she did, _petite_. That she did."

                No more excuses. 

                He was not a child suffering from night terrors. He was, as he had reminded Paige only a few hours ago, a grown man. He'd had a chance to recover from the nightmare. He'd had a bath, a drink, ice cream. 

                And the ice cream, honestly, was damn good.

                But his mind seemed to have cleared, magically, and he was thinking logically again. The matter of fact meeting with the other X-Men, despite the strangeness of it occurring at 2am, had brought him back to reality, and he felt like an idiot for walking around looking like hell all day. No wonder everyone was worried about him. Paige woke him from a horrible nightmare, Bobby watched him eating ice cream out of the carton and staring blankly at a television all night… it was kind of them to notice, really. He supposed that he should thank them…  

                After he slept. 

                Nothing to be afraid of. They were just nightmares, after all. Perhaps that mutant knocking him out had short circuited something in his head, but it was nothing real, nothing tangible, and nothing to worry about.  

                No weakness.

                He undressed and slid into bed, turned off the lamp, and closed his eyes.

                Was that a spider… crawling… on his leg…?

                He refused to acknowledge the phantom tickling. No. This was ridiculous. He had not slept in 48 hours, and he'd had enough alcohol in that time to kill a small elephant. He was hallucinating. 

                Tiny legs, rushing over him, with that horrible arachnid quickness that always made the things seem so disturbing.

                He slid his hand up, onto his stomach, palm pressed flat. Nothing. Just the smoothness of his muscles, tensing and releasing, under his skin. Just the rise and fall of his breath. 

                His mind would not stop turning it over. The past two days. Dreams of Jeanne-Marie, dreams of Asgard, things that had happened so long ago. Violet eyes. Spiders. 

                Jean-Paul rolled over, onto his stomach, slid his arms under his pillow, turned his face to the side. 

                It really _had_ been astonishing that they'd noticed. Well, perhaps it would have been difficult for Paige not to, what with his jumping at her like that. But she'd been so honestly concerned. They were not close, had never really even held a conversation. Even Jubilee had seen it, somehow, and she really wasn't the most observant of teenagers. And Bobby…

                But no. Better not to think about that. That would certainly not help him go to sleep.

                His stomach twisted up, as he felt it happening. As he felt himself losing control, slipping away.

                But it wasn't enough to stop him.

AN/Warnings: First off, I thank anyone reading this for bearing with me on this psychological trip I'm pulling here. If you've made it this far, I feel as if I should warn you that they may get a little more disturbing from this point on. The following chapters **will**contain depression, violence, general fucked-up-ness and yes, eventually, "slash." I have a feeling that last one will be the deal breaker for many, but let me assure you that this will not be slash for its own sake. I have a point, and I only hope I can manage to communicate it well enough to justify the possibly disturbing imagery I'm about to start calling on. But then again, if the idea of a man with another man disgusts you so much, I doubt you would be reading a story about Jean-Paul Beaubier. And as for the other things (that would be the general fucked-up-ness,) I have no excuse but that it forwards the plot. To me, there is no other justification. And I hope you, if you're being so kind as to read this, will understand. For those of you who've given me feedback thus far:

                To ZilentZombie: I hope you're still enjoying, and please, feel free to let me know if you have any suggestions. I tend to get wordy, self-involved, and dramatic. Do let me know if I can't get away with it ;)

                To VA-river-gal: Hope you're still out there! I enjoy your stuff immensely, it's flattering to have a compliment from you ;) Same goes for you as for Z up there, we love pain, criticize us!

                To The M: Seriously… wow. I don't think I've ever had kinder words spoken (or written!) to me. I do hope that you blow those cobwebs off, because you, my dear are amazing. More please? As for being a tease… what can I say. I rarely hear complaints about that particular personality trait, so I've kept it around ;)

                To beenieweenie: Thank you for the comments. I wasn't certain if the dream chapters were working to my advantage, but I decided to give it a shot anyhow, to break the monotony of the comic book-ish story. Hope it's living up to your expectations!

And now, back to your regularly scheduled night terrors…


	6. Dream the Third

Dream the Third

                _So small. So helpless. Little Joanna Beaubier. _

_                His daughter._

_                He held her close, in the dark, let her rest her head on his shoulder. The weight of her in his arms was reassuring, the warmth of her seemed to reach into the deepest part of him, parts of him he'd thought died years ago. Parts of him he hadn't known existed.  She cooed, softly, in her small, charming voice. The smell of baby lotion and talcum. So soft, needing him so much. _

_                Yes, he was happy holding her, though it made him shake with anger to think that someone would leave her. Such a small, helpless human being. Alone, in a back alley, as if she should be thrown out. It made his head hot, made his eyes burn._

_                Made him cry. _

_                Yes, he'd cried many times, holding her like this, although it made him happy._

_                Another small noise from her, a noise of utter contentment. _

_                He had not known he was capable of such love. A love that choked him like this, that reduced him to nothing but emotions. Certainly, he loved his sister. And  he had been in love before, both with men who'd loved him back, and men whom he could never allow to see it._

_                But this… this was different. He wasn't entirely certain why, of course, except that she needed him. But it was more than just that. It wasn't because she was born sick, HIV positive, it wasn't because she was left alone, it wasn't because no one else wanted her. _

_                It was the way she looked at him. Just a baby, yet she seemed to know him. The way her eyes lit up, eyes that had only recently settled on blue, a cloudy, steely blue. The way they would automatically seek his face. It was the way her hand wrapped around his finger automatically, trusting him, beguiling him. Such openness. Such innocence. He knew when he looked at her that he would never again see something as beautiful.  _

_                Ah… but… how did he know? Perhaps she would live a full life. There was that chance, non? It would never be normal, no, but she could live for years, decades, and the disease might not progress. It happened sometimes…_

_                No._

_                Crushing weight, in his chest. Like someone sitting on his lungs, like an iron fist wrapping around his heart._

_                Oh god… no. No. _

_                He knew though. In that moment, he knew. Joanna Beaubier… she would die. She would die just like this, in his arms…_

_                Her breath, soft and sweet, on his neck. Her little hand clutching at the fabric of his shirt fitfully. _

_                "No… why do you make me re-live this? _Ce n'est pas vrai_.... _This is not real, why do you do this to me?"__

_                It was more of a sob than a shout. He couldn't shout. He couldn't wake her. _Dieu_, just let her sleep. Let her sleep…_

_                "Because, Monsieur, I can."_

_                He spun now, to see who it was. Even though he knew. His stomach turned to stone and he knew._

_                His daughter was gone. His shirt felt warm, where she had been. But the warmth inside, it was gone. And he stood, in the dark, looking at her. Dressed in black, beautiful golden skin, and those eyes. _

_                "I know you, Jean-Paul. I know everything about you." She told him, her voice cold enough to match her eyes. _

_                Red rage swelled up inside of him, melting the fear away, melting the pain entirely. He wanted nothing more than his hands around her throat. Nothing more than to feel the life leaking out of her as he choked her, to see her turn grey in the face… like she had made Jeanne-Marie…_

_                But he could not move. And he could not speak. All he could do was stare. _

_                Impotent. Weak. _

_                She was near now, and she brought cold with her. She moved like a snake, hissed when she spoke. She raised a hand, a purple nail trailing the line of his jaw. She looked into his eyes, right through him . Chilling and violet. "So," she said, "I do it, because I _can._"_


	7. Chapter Four: Sunday Morning Call

Chapter Four: Sunday Morning Call

                When he sat up straight in bed, in the dark, he was crying.

                Not sobbing, not shaking, not breathing hard, not making a sound. But his face was wet, and his eyes were burning.

                And there was nothing he could do but sit and wait it out. Because he knew, deep down, he would not be able to stop it. 

                Not this time.

                "I don't know what it is, Henri," he shook his head, too tired to pretend anymore. "But I do not believe it's just me. I think she did something to me."

                Henry McCoy nodded, looking both perplexed and concerned. "These dreams, they started when she touched you, you're certain?"

                "_Oui, the very moment. I had the first one that night, when she knocked me out, and when I woke I was with Annie, in the infirmary," he said, trying to be patient, to remain calm. Not that he had the energy for dramatics, at the moment. But he could feel her, how warm she was, how small… "and since then, any time I've had a moment's sleep, I've had a nightmare."_

                "I must inquire about the nature of these dreams, Jean-Paul. Are they the garden variety, being pursued by a madman dream, or—"

                "_Non_,_" he cut in, rather too sharply. He took a deep breath, and said it again, "_Non___, they are… personal. Things from my past, painful things."_

                A noise of understanding, a nod of the head. Hank leaned back, as if to physically reiterate the fact that he would not push the subject any further, he would not encroach on Northstar's privacy any more than was absolutely necessary. 

                Tension he had not realized had been in his shoulders suddenly drained out. Amazing what a man could speak, with such a small gesture. He wished he was not quite so tired, not so confused, so he could fully appreciate just how articulate this man was, and not just because of his enormous vocabulary. 

                But then, he wished those things for many reasons. And appreciation of this furry man was fairly near to the bottom of the list.

                He scrubbed at his face with one hand, scraping against the dark stubble he had not shaved away yet today. It was not like him to let it go like this. Not even for a day. But then, it was not like him to stagger down to the infirmary at seven AM on a Sunday morning to find Annie, either. 

                Which is why, after a very brief, very intense discussion, she had personally escorted him to Hank. 

                She was sitting outside the door, right now. Waiting. 

                He'd seen it in her eyes, just as he'd seen it in Paige's last night. He'd scared her. And he was sorry for it. But honestly… honestly, what choice did he have?

                Oh god, she'd been so small. So defenseless. His daughter.

                "Jean-Paul?"

                His head snapped up. Hank was talking to him. "I'm sorry… I'm very sorry. The dreams. It's hard not to think of them. Something so… strong. It feels so real."

                "We should have the Professor examine you immediately," Hank was shaking his head. "This sounds like some sort of psychic interference. I regret now that I was halfway joking about such a possibility, when we met previously. This is entirely out of my jurisdiction as a doctor, and more into the Professor's realm. It's a shame Jean isn't here, really…"

                His upper lip curled in an uncontrollable sneer, "All I need is a few more people exploring my head."

                "I understand, and apologize, Jean-Paul," he shook his head once again, raising a large furry hand to clutch at the hair on top of his head, in a puzzled fashion, "but something must be done. It's draining your energy at an alarming speed, this lack of sleep, almost as if your endurance were merely on par with the average human." 

                A touch of his typical, caustic nature suddenly flared. "You can say it, I won't break. I'm going to go mad, non?"  Even to his own ears, he sounded angry, but cold. As if it didn't really touch him enough to make him _really upset.   _

                But Hank leaned forward, once again. "Not if I can help it."

                He'd said himself, though, he couldn't. Out of his jurisdiction as a doctor. He could make him sleep, but he couldn't keep him from dreaming. If he did, it would, of course, ruin the effects of sleep. 

                So Jean-Paul had submitted to an MRI, after urging Annie, who sat clutching at her throat in the hallway, to return to her work and not to worry about him anymore. She'd hugged him. Tight. And nodded.

                _Good god, I really _must _look like hell_, was all he could think, as he watched her walk away.

                So, he sat, gripping his cup of coffee as if his life depended on it, staring at the Professor.

                He was not looking forward to this. Not at all.

                He knew they were lucky that Xavier was who he was and chose not to simply kill them all by thinking too hard. That the man had a code of ethics, and wasn't intruding upon their every thought. He shuddered to think of someone like Stacy wielding such a power. She could barely contain the knowledge of a harmless crush; she would doubtless morph into the devil himself if she could see all the secrets each of them carried around every day.

                And they all had so many of those. Every one of them.

                But Xavier was not that sort of a man. That had been part of the reason he had been able to convince Northstar to come here, to teach. He was a man who believed in fairness, and he stuck to that. No one was perfect, the man had made mistakes, yes. But they were lucky he had the measure of integrity he did. The entire world, whether they knew it or not, was lucky. 

                Still, it did not help the sickness in his heart, or the ache in his head, to think of that. Because, all integrity aside… he was dreading letting Xavier into his head.

                "I know it's difficult, Jean-Paul," Xavier was saying, in his permanently calm, collected tones, staring at him over his desk. "I know you've had enough of this sort of thing, if this Maya has indeed been entering your thoughts as you sleep."

                He suppressed a cold chill, thinking of it. Thinking of Jeanne-Marie going cold in his arms, thinking of the whirr of metal in the air, the way it sliced just so through his skin, thinking of Joanna… "I don't know what else to do," he admitted, as the hairs on his arms, on the back of his neck, stood on end. "I don't think I have a choice."

                "You're certain these aren't just nightmares?"

                He narrowed his eyes dangerously at the Professor, "I think I know what my own dreams feel like, Xavier. Would I be here if I thought it was something I'd done to myself, if I thought I could get away with keeping it quiet?"

                He knew he sounded positively venomous. And he did not care. Not a little.

                In fact, he irrationally hoped it had stung.

                Xavier didn't look as if it had, however. He simply  nodded, accepting. "Of course not. I only want to be sure this is absolutely necessary, and discern how far I should go with it."

                He blinked, and could not help but notice how slow his eyelids were to open again. All the venom drained from his voice, he simply sounded cold again. "I know you are a good man, Professor. I would not be here otherwise. But I must ask you… do not go further than you have to. You're right, I've had enough of this sort of thing. Just… just tell me if it's true. If it's her."

                It didn't matter, of course, what the Professor told him. He knew it was her. 

                But he had to hear someone else say it, just to confirm that he wasn't insane. He was starting to have doubts.

                "I wouldn't think of it. You have my word."

                He was a good man, yes. But somehow, that didn't make Jean-Paul any more comfortable with what he knew had to happen.

                "I'm going to ask you to relax now. Let go of your blocks, and allow me to enter your mind easily," Xavier was telling him. 

                Heart thudding, he did as he was told to the best of his abilities. He closed his eyes…

                "He says he cannot feel any connection between me and someone on the outside," he shook his head, pulling at his hair fitfully, drinking his seventh cup of coffee before it was even noon. "That was all he could say without moving further, looking into the dreams themselves. But he knows what I feel, and he believes me when I say she is there, in my head, when I sleep. And… he says I may have to go to sleep for him to be aware of the presence, since that is the only time it seems to turn up."

                Annie leaned close to him, put her arm around him. "You don't want to go to sleep."

                A sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. He stared hard at the ground, at the grass between his feet. She wasn't asking him a question, of course. It was obvious that he didn't want to go to sleep. But still, he answered, "_Non. I do not want to sleep, and I do not want him to see what happens to me when I am asleep. The things that I've seen in the past two days..."_

                She leaned her head on his shoulder, since he would not, could not do that to her. Too weak already. He was a grown man, after all. "Wouldn't it be better, in the end, Jean-Paul? It would mean he would have to see your dreams, maybe, have to feel how much it… hurts you," she seemed hesitant to imply that he might be hurt by anything. Ah, did she know him so well already? "But wouldn't it be better if it meant it would be over faster?"

                He managed a weak chuckle at this. Such a nurse at heart, this woman. "When I was little, my… adoptive mother, my aunt, she used to tell me to rip the bandage off quickly, you know. Yes, it hurts more all at once, she would say, but it's over so quickly, and you can begin to recover." The laugh again, small and weak, and a short pause. He had not thought about the Martins in what felt like years, despite the fact that he'd once thought their name was his own. "I don't remember much about her… I was six when they were killed, she and my uncle. But I always wondered about the wisdom of that little mantra. I can't remember, Annie. But perhaps she was a nurse, too."

                When he looked over at her, finally, he was surprised to see her serious, pale aqua eyes looked a little wet. And she was chewing on her bottom lip delicately. 

                "You should go," he told her, suddenly extremely uncomfortable with how close she felt, with what he had just said to her. "I'm keeping you from Carter."

                She shook her head. "No, not at all—"

                Gently then, he took her arm off his shoulders, stood up before the bench they had been occupying, and offered her a hand. "You should go," he repeated, quietly. Kindly. But he meant it.

                She took the hand, and stood, but didn't let it go for a few moments. She just looked at him. "You should talk to Paige… and Bobby. They asked about you earlier. I didn't know what to say, so I told them you were with the Professor."

                Annie knew, of course. She was the only one who knew, god willing. 

                "I'll see Bobby later today, and I'll go and find Paige now."

                She opened her mouth, as if she would say more. But didn't. 

                "Thank you."

                For a minute, he was sure she would have to hug him again.

                Instead, she nodded, and turned toward the house.

                Never in his life had he experienced a relief so complete, and a sadness so overwhelming, at the same time.  Separately, he'd felt both things in staggering quantities. But he'd never before noticed how well they went together, until he sent her away. 

                For a moment, he simply watched the girls together. Paige would come up on Bridget, honestly granting her no quarter, but certainly not using her powers to aid her, and Bridget would either find a way to foil her attack, or end up on the ground. They were laughing as they did this, over and over again, and it somehow seemed right. Out here, under the sun, before the fall grew cold. 

                He hadn't noticed it before, but now he saw it. The way Bridget's eyes lingered on the other girl. On her legs in their spare running shorts. On her face, even after Paige had looked away and was busy explaining some stance or another. Of course, he felt like a complete fool for not having noticed. And it also explained why she'd been so very apologetic about "clinging," as she called it, to himself and Kurt the other night. It wasn't just that she was independent, though that no doubt had a large part in it. She probably felt silly because it made her look as if she was throwing herself at them.

                And it was clear that Bridget Bain was not remotely interested in men. Or, if she was, it was only a sideline to her main interests. 

                He'd made an assumption, of course, based on her actions that night, and based on her continued association with Bobby. But now that he thought of it, he really hadn't been hanging on her, and when they'd been next to each other on the couch, he hadn't even made a move to take her hand or put his arm around her. 

                Good god. He'd been so busy thinking about himself, being a bitter, horrible, self-involved asshole, as Bobby had so kindly pointed out, that he'd completely lost the plot. Although he hadn't said anything aloud, it occurred to him that he might owe his teammate Iceman an apology.

                Of course… it had been a hard few days. 

                "Hey! Northstar!" Paige had caught sight of him and was trotting in his direction, toward the tree he was leaning on. 

                Bridget looked up and smiled at him, gave a little wave, and followed soon behind. 

                "There you are," the blonde said, in her best motherly voice, as she stopped just in front of him. "I was worried about you when I didn't see you this morning."

                He attempted to smile at her. "I meant to thank you, Paige, for your consideration last night—"

                "Holy mother, Jean-Paul, you make it sound like some kind of formal award I gave out or something," she batted him playfully on the arm now, actually blushing just a bit. "You just looked so sick…"

                "The man doesn't look so fresh today, either." Bridget had joined them by this time, and was wiping the sweat off her hands onto her own soccer shorts. "God, are you ok? Your eyes…," she leaned forward, and went up on her toes, all five foot three of her, to try and get a closer look at him.

                "I gotta say though," Husk also considered him closely, obviously trying to seem like she wasn't as worried anymore. It wasn't working, but he appreciated the effort. "I like the scruffy look on you. Perfect, pretty guys like you always make a girl want to rough them up a bit."

                He had to admit, their energy was disarming. He raised an eyebrow at her, but made sure at least half a smile was still on his face. "Yes well, perhaps someone should warn Warren."

                Laughing, she gave him another little swipe. "Not that I expect my liking the scruffy look to impress you, but I'm sure you know what I mean," and she winked, the blush in her cheeks deepening so that it could no longer be passed off as simply coming from her exertions with the other girl.   

                "Although I normally love my face to be scrutinized by the masses," he tried to joke, wondering just how successful he could possibly be at such an endeavor in his disheveled, puffy-eyed state, "I was really just stopping by to let you know that I'm alive and well, though I may not look it. And to say thank you. Annie mentioned that you'd stopped by this morning."

                "Yeah, me and Bobby," she cocked her head at him now, eyes narrowed as if considering him deeply.

                What was it about women that they seemed to just… _know some things. _

                It was damn unnerving at times.

                "Well, I suppose I'll see him later," he shrugged it off. Then he looked to the red-head, "Did Kurt find you? He wanted you to be there for—"

                "A meeting?" She asked. 

                He only nodded.

                "Yeah, he found me. I'll be there." 

                He pushed off the tree, lightly, and decided now was a good time for an escape. He was rapidly growing uncomfortable with the looks he was getting from both of them. He knew, of course, that it had much to do with the circles under his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks, and the fact that his eyes looked bloodshot. Almost as if he'd been crying, really.

                And he didn't want to think about that. Not at the moment.

                "Right then, carry on with the lesson. _Au revoir_."

                And before they could say anything more, he started walking toward the front door.

                He had no plans to go inside, of course. Not until he had to. But he could only hope that no one would be in the yard on the other side of the house. 

                Funny though. At the same time, he almost hoped they would be. Anyone, really. Just so he wouldn't have to feel it again. The cold. The cut. The ache.

                He spent most of the meeting wondering why Alex had been giving him a particularly dirty look from the infirmary as he walked by. Oh, he paid attention to "the plan" well enough, he was just a little… distracted by the intensity of the look. It had been the unmistakable, patented Summers' Little Black Rain Cloud Look. It made him wonder what he'd done to deserve it, really. 

                And it irritated him immensely. But at the moment, there was very little that wasn't irritating him.

                Finally, everyone had said their bit, and it appeared that he would escape when, "Jean-Paul, can I talk to you for a moment?"

                The German accent made if obvious, of course. And he had a sinking sensation in his stomach, rather like the one he used to get back in his ruffian days when he knew he'd been caught.

                But he turned to face Kurt Wagner, in all his blue fuzzy glory, head on. "Certainly."

                The others had cleared out, the plans solidified, the schedule set in stone. He, however, was apparently being kept after class. And it was fairly obvious why. 

                Quietly, the other man moved to the door, and shut it behind Bobby, the last one out. And then turned to face him. "You look like hell."

                Calmly, he took a sip of his tea. The coffee was starting to hurt his stomach, but he was nowhere near ready to give up caffeine today. "I'd noticed."

                "I talked to the Professor," Kurt shook his head, his golden eyes falling to the floor with something like disappointment in them, "and he doesn't think you need to be there."

                So predictable. He very nearly laughed. "I'm sure the show would go on without me, Kurt. But the fact remains, that I _need _ to be there." And he did. If something went wrong, if Jubilee didn't get in and out of there with the information they needed, he needed to be there. 

                He tried to tell himself that it wasn't because he wanted to see her caught himself. He wanted to pretend it was because he was concerned about Jubilee, or Bridget, or the fate of any other man or woman on that campus who dared to oppose their little organization.

                But it was a lie. Because he wanted nothing more than to be the one to end it. 

                Kurt was shaking his head, "You are obviously sick, _mein__ Freund. And as far as I know, you don't _get_ sick. Not unless something is very, very wrong. __Richtig__?"_

                "I'm not going to try and lie to you. It's obvious that something is wrong, you said it yourself. I look like hell," and he considered the man before him for just one moment. Thought of him a few nights ago, laughing and eating ice cream in the kitchen. In the bar, making jokes about Logan's thick skull and American beer. And he decided that rather than simply "not lying," he should tell him the truth. "When she touched me, Maya," he hated the name, hated the way it felt in his mouth, hated the way it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, "she did something to me. I haven't been able to sleep since. And when I do, there are… nightmares. And not just your average wake up trying not to piss the bed nightmares. I can _feel them. Right now, standing here…," a suppressed shiver, now, "I can feel them. I can feel her, in my head." He took a step closer, looked his teammate directly in the eye. "Maybe it will be nothing. Maybe Jubilee will simply walk in there, find out why Logan can't sniff the girl out, and bring her out of hiding as easy as that. But we don't know what's going to happen. And Kurt… I need to do this."_

                Nightcrawler looked at him for a moment, the muscles in his jaw working heavily as he considered. "I don't believe, Jean-Paul, that I could stop you if I tried."

                "You never know," he answered quickly, knowing it sounded bitter, "you might get lucky and I'll pass out from exhaustion just before you leave." 

                But Kurt smiled at him anyhow, and clapped him on the shoulder. His grip was reassuringly firm, and warm. And the smile matched it. "I trust you. You know what's best for yourself. And, as you said, it's not as if it's a difficult thing. We are only there as backup. But promise me, if something happens, if you…"

                "If I break down?"

                Kurt nodded, no longer smiling, but patting him on the back now and moving him toward the door. "Yes, actually. Promise that you'll stay home. Or go home."

                He didn't want to promise anything of the sort. But really, the man could have been much more difficult about this. "I will."

                Kurt turned the doorknob, smiling again, "Did you like the ice cream?"

                "Someone told you, did they?"

                "_Ja, and I'll have you know that Oreos and Crème is my favorite."_

                "I'll buy you another carton next time I'm out."

                Nightcrawler patted him on the back one last time as they stepped into the hallway together, now grinning his best swashbuckler grin. "We'll share it."

                He actually gave a smile back, for that one. "But of course."

                "If you need me—"

                "I know where you'll be."

                The fuzzy elf threw him one last grin, nodded elegantly, and turned to make his way to the Danger Room, tail swishing behind him.

                Actually, he felt a little less heavy as he turned to head in the opposite direction. As if admitting to what was happening when not about to crack, as he had been this morning, had actually done him some good.

                But the weight returned to his shoulders when he nearly ran into Bobby Drake. Standing in the hallway. 

                "Hey, JP."

                _Fuck_, was pretty much the only thought that passed through his head at that moment in time.

                "Look, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I gave you shit last night. You're obviously having a rough time, and I know how that is. I should've backed off," the shorter man appeared to be having difficulty meeting his eyes, for some reason. 

                There was a pause, where Bobby apparently convinced himself to look Jean-Paul in the eye, and Jean-Paul looked back with an expression that was somewhere between terror and sadness, his entire body tensed from the inside out.

                And finally, he managed to speak. "No, you were right. I was being an asshole. You were absolutely right, and I apologize."

                Both of Bobby's eyebrows raised slowly, causing his purple sunglasses, already situation on top of his head, to move back just a little further. "Whoa… ok didn't expect that. I mean… no offense, but I was ready for the old, 'yeah damn right kid, now get out of my face,' act."

                "You're not a kid," Jean-Paul said, before he thought it through completely.

                Bobby nodded slowly, and his expression changed to one of deep consideration, his eyebrows lowering and drawing in tight, and his mouth thinning out, his lips pressing together. "_I know that," he muttered, dropping his eyes and looking right through the other X-Man. _

                "So do I," he just looked at him, unflinching, loving that thoughtful expression on his familiar features. Admiring it outright. He simply couldn't be bothered to hide it, not right then.

                Blinking hard once, as if he'd realized something important, the other man suddenly looked up at him. He almost looked like he'd forgotten he was there altogether, for a moment. "Thanks."

                  Something about that look. "I meant to find you, this morning. Annie said you'd asked about me. I should have found you then, but… it's already been a long day."

                "Yeah, you look like you've had a long day. A 72 hour one."

                He managed a small laugh at that, "Not yet."

                "Seriously, though. You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

                At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to talk about it. It was rather surprising to realize, but he found that something in him would be happy to talk about what was happening to him for hours, if it meant this would continue. This… whatever it was he felt, right now. Between them.

                Which was the first, and only needed sign that he should end it immediately. "No, I'm alright. I just wanted to thank you."

                Again, Iceman shook his head, then reached up and pulled his shades back down over his eyes. "Just seems to me, _mon__ ami, that everyone around this place is having a hard time lately. Seems like we'd all be a hell of a lot happier if we pulled our heads out of our respective asses, and helped each other get through it."_

                And before Northstar could ask him if _he wanted to talk about what he'd meant, exactly, by that statement… Bobby was halfway down the hall.  _

                He would be lying if he said he honestly did not feel the urge to crawl, as he headed back to his room for a shower.

                His legs weren't weak, per se. Just... tight. Everything on him was so tight. His neck protested every time he moved his head, his back felt as if it had no smooth muscle left, only knots. Sixty-two hours now, he'd been awake. Minus a few nightmares. Normally, he should be able to handle this. He wouldn't be in top form, perhaps, but he should at least be functional.  

                But right now, all he wanted was to sleep. 

                He did manage to take the shower first. But after cutting himself three or four times in a badly conceived attempt to shave, he found himself sitting. On his bed. God, it was soft. Perhaps if he could just lay down for a few minutes… close his eyes. He knew he should be in the lab, if he was going to sleep. He knew he should tell the Professor, so he could be on his guard.

                Fuck it. He didn't think he could move, now that he had stretched out in the sheets, gotten rid of the wet towel around his waist, put his head on the pillow.

                And fuck Maya and her nightmares. All he wanted... was sleep.


	8. Dream the Fourth

Dream the Fourth

_                Someone was kissing him._

_                Softly, carefully. But there was more to it than just softness. It had none of the innocence that word might imply, though, certainly, much of the tenderness. _

_                No, this was warmer… hotter. Gentle fingers at his throat and a tongue toying with his. Pushing easily past his lips, running over the ridge of his teeth, in and then out again. And he found himself kissing back, sinking into the wetness of it, into the sweet taste of him. Full, beautiful lips. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd taken the man's lower lip in his teeth, and pulled at it, just a bit. _

_                This got him the response he wanted. A quick, sharp breath, eyes closed in ecstasy. The kiss deepened, grew rougher, more demanding. The man sucked at his tongue and pressed hard against him now, grinding his hips into him. He could feel it entirely now, the body against his, warm and hard and smooth. He reached out, eyes still closed, put his hand at the small of the other man's back. Let the tips of his fingers trail up the smooth skin, just over his spine. Just enough so that he could feel his fingernails. Just enough so he would want more._

_                He felt himself being pulled in, then found himself almost entirely underneath the ideal man, shoulders straining and sculpted as he held himself over him. Apollo and David and every other perfect figure ever created. Right here. With him. The man stopped kissing his mouth, and moved to his neck, that tender spot just where his jaw met his neck, just under his ear. The man breathed his name, a familiar voice, but an unfamiliar huskiness, urgency._

_                He laid the entire length of his body against him, one of his legs between his, one on the outside, halfway burying him. Kissing him, then dragging his teeth across him just a little. Just a delicate nibble, at his neck. Down further. Further, as his back arched slightly, his head pressing further into the pillow, his neck exposed completely. Kissing, nipping at his collar bone. Such soft lips, such a clever tongue. _

_                His hands kept themselves busy while the man's mouth worked sweetly at him. One tracing  lines up and down the other's exquisite back, another entangled in his short, thick hair. Just this feeling, the feeling of his skin against him, of the palm of his hand flattened on his stomach, of his beguiling mouth doing such lovely things, this was what he'd wanted. _

_                This had not happened before. Not like this. But he wanted it._

_                The rush of blood between his legs, the strain of it against the other's stomach. The man dragged himself across him when he felt him rise, made him bite his lip to keep silent, moved lower still. Past the dark hair on his chest, to toy at his nipple. He licked at it, pulled at it with his lips, finally bit at it, gently. But it was enough. Simultaneously, one hand was sliding lower and lower, over his stomach, palm still flat and hungry against him, sliding down to cup his hip bone, spread its fingers slowly._

_                Perfect, terrible anticipation. A beautiful sort of need. Biting at his lip again, muffling a groan, he tasted metal. Blood. He'd bitten so hard, he'd drawn blood._

_                Wetness, trailing down his stomach, the man's expert  tongue as he kissed, licked, on his way down. He dug his fingernails into the other now, just a bit more, and he responded with a quick nip at his navel. Then again, further down. _

_                Ah, _Dieu_. He would die of it, he was sure. Die of the ache, the wonderful, breathtaking ache. Of the feeling of this man against him, the feeling of the muscles in his back as he held himself over him, the feeling of his erection against his leg, of his hot, greedy mouth all over him. _

_                The man's name hung on the tip of his lips, almost spilled over as a sigh, in an erratic breath._

_                But suddenly, breath left him entirely. The man's name…_

_                No. Oh god, no. This was not possible. It wasn't real…_

_                The other felt him tense, looked up, and gave him the first  full view of his handsome face since this had begun. A question in his cold eyes. _

_                "_Non_… _c'est impossible_…" he tried to take it in, but it all felt _wrong.

_                "_Impossible_? I beg to differ, Jean-Paul…," he was smiling. As if he belonged here, naked, in his bed, doing such things to him. Such a  familiar smile, that only made it hurt more._

_                No._

_                He cocked his head, and crawled back up, so that his face was hanging over his, their lips nearly touching, his breath hot against his face. He straddled him in one swift movement, pinning him down entirely, and brought a hand up to his lip, touching at it carefully. "You're bleeding, _mon amour_." Perfect accent, this time. Voice low, tender, so warm. Warm, despite the chill in his eyes._

_                Oh Christ, so wrong… this was all _so_ wrong…_

_                And then, he changed. Suddenly, the face was far less familiar, sharper. No longer his Apollo. But he knew it, all the same._

_                "I told you I know you, Jean-Paul," her horrible violet eyes burned into him, and he found that he could not move. Pinned under her, long golden legs around his midsection. Dark hair hanging around his face like a curtain. Breath like roses. His heart beat so fast, he felt it would burst through his ribcage. And he couldn't breathe… _

_                "I know everything." She placed one hand on his chest, as if to prove her dominance by holding him down just a little more. The other hand  she brought to her mouth, and licked her index finger, pausing to close her lips around the tip of it for a moment. His blood. She was licking his blood off her finger. " I know what you've done, I know what you are, and I know what you want. How does it make you feel?" _

_                He tried to scream at her, to throw her across the room, but all that came from him was a feral sort of growl, and all he could manage was to reach out, take her by the shoulders, and shove her—_

_                The effort of it threw him forward, on the bed. Tangled up in his sheets. Alone, confused, and utterly horrified.  _


	9. Chapter Five: Downward Spiral

_can__ anybody fly this thing?_

_before__ my head explodes,_

_or__ my head starts to ring._

_we've__ been living life inside a bubble,_

_we've__ been living life inside a bubble._

_confidence__ in you,_

_is__ confidence in me,_

_is__ confidence in high speed._

_can__ anybody stop this thing?_

_before__ my head explodes,_

_or__ my head starts to ring._

_we've__ been living life inside a bubble,_

_we've__ been living life inside a bubble._

_confidence__ in you,_

_is__ confidence in me,_

_is__ confidence in high speed._

_in__ high speed,_

_high__ speed…_

-Coldplay, "High Speed" 

 

Chapter Five: Downward Spiral

                "Jean-Paul… hey, _Jean-Paul._" 

                His face was buried in the sheets, and his legs were hopelessly twisted in the bedclothes. At the sound of his name, he pushed himself up, just enough to look up and notice that he was at the wrong end of the bed, and breathing very heavily. 

                And oh god, the ache. Why that voice? Why right now, at this moment, was he hearing _that voice?_

                A hand, on his back, cold. "God man, are you ok?"

                Oh god, those hands. His arms gave out, and he fell back to his stomach, burying his face again. No. He could not look him in the eye. Not now. No. Oh god, it was so wrong… what she had done to him. To show him such things… things he would never have. To make it so completely _wrong_. 

                Pressure on the bed, near him. He felt it shift under him as Bobby sat down, not too far from him. "Jean-Paul… I'm sorry… the Professor said to come and find you, and… and the door was hanging open a little. You were… thrashing. Seriously man—holy shit, is that _blood_?"

                It echoed in his head. _You're bleeding, mon amour. _

                God. That pain. Crushing, in his chest. It made him want to hurt something… someone. 

                A hand jerked at the sheets under his head, and he picked it up again to let him have them, not having the strength to fight. 

                His hands all over him. Her legs around his waist.  

                He wanted to hit something. Hard. He tried to control it while the other man was there, tried not to start shaking.

                "What did you do to yourself? Look at me, let me see, is your nose bleeding?"

                He sucked on his lower lip, and the taste of it filled his mouth. Blood. Metallic and salty and thick. "_Non, Bobby. It's just my lip. I'm fine. Please, go away." But he was starting to shake now. In rage. In fear. In abject horror of what had been done to him, even if it was only in dreams. _

                It didn't matter if it wasn't real. It was real in his mind. He could feel it. And Jesus Christ, it hurt.

                "Fuck you man, look at me," and Bobby dropped off the bed to kneel at the foot of it, so that if Jean-Paul were to raise his head even slightly, he'd be looking him in the eye.

                And he did not want to look Bobby Drake in the eye. Not right now. Not after that. 

                "Please, just… go away."

                A pause. Lying there, head pillowed on his arms, eyes burning. Horrified and enraged. After a moment he was tempted to look up, just to see what the other man was doing. But he had not heard him move. Not for at least a minute. He was there. Breathing. And the quiet hung heavily, oppressively over them. Jean-Paul could feel it. 

                Somehow, he knew Bobby could too.

                "The Professor told me to come find you," he finally said, after the long, terrible silence. "He said it's safe to sleep now. For a few hours. He said… she disappeared when he caught her link to you, and he can't find her now. But he doesn't think she'll be back for awhile, so it's safe to sleep," quiet again, for a moment. Then, "I think that's it."

                Able to resist no longer, he raised his head. Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, jaw set firmly, Bobby stared at him for a minute, eyes drifting down to his lip, then back up.  God, his heart.

                "I don't know what that means, but I'll assume it has to do with why you look like hell all the time. And why your lip is bleeding. Did you _bite_ yourself?" He said it quietly, flatly. As if insulted by being kept out of the loop.

                But that was the last thing on Jean-Paul's mind, at the moment. "He sent _you_?" What a perverted sense of humor that man had. Of course, he would have seen it…

                Bobby shook his head, "He just said he needed someone to go. Said he would've told you telepathically, but he was afraid it would… hurt you or something. I was next to the stairs so… I offered."

                That… would never… he his. 

                He was so angry he thought it would rip him apart. Burn him up, from the inside out. 

                He wanted to kill her. Slowly.

                "Is that all?"

                Again, Bobby just looked at him. "Yeah… yeah I guess."

                "Then goodnight."

                The other man blinked at him.

                And he put his head back down, and closed his eyes before the burning in them turned to tears.

                Three hours. 

                That's all the sleep he'd gotten, before someone else woke him. This time, it was Warren. 

                "Jean-Paul… Xavier sent me. Said he needs to talk with you."

                His eyes were open, of course. Looking at the clock. Three hours of sleep. 

                He didn't think he could move.

                "_Merci_," he made himself reply, attempting to push himself up to a sitting position. He'd passed out just like that, head on his arms, face halfway in the sheets.

                He heard footsteps, as Warren moved into his room a little further, "Are you bleeding?"

                He sucked at his lip, knowing full well the cut should be healed. Only… it wasn't quite. It wasn't bleeding, per se. But he could still feel the puncture there, still taste metal in the wound. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, Worthington, I'll be down in a moment," he forced himself not to sound groggy, to sound businesslike. He would _not show weakness in front of daddy's little boy. Not a chance. He sat up straight now, and hung his feet over the edge of the bed, lower body still wrapped in the sheets, and stared out the window blankly, into the moonlit night. He didn't even look at the other man. _

                Archangel hesitated, as if deciding whether he should listen or not. And finally turned, and shut the door behind him quietly.

                Elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Jean-Paul raked his hands through his hair, pulled at it, and tried very, very hard not to scream. 

                The three hours of sleep had not made him less angry, as it turned out. Or less utterly disturbed by what it was his last dream had shown him, its affect on him, or the idea of… _him turning into… _her_. While straddling his stomach, at that. _

                Naturally, he could remember exactly how it felt. He could still feel it, all of it. His lips, his hands, his tongue. 

                And he wouldn't be surprised if Xavier remembered as well. 

                "I'm sorry to intrude upon you, Northstar," his tone was so businesslike, it made Jean-Paul want to put his fist through a wall. Repeatedly, and _very_ fast. "But I was watching you carefully the entire day. The moment I noticed you were asleep, I noticed her presence. At first, I couldn't find her, couldn't pinpoint where she was, or how she was doing it. It is not a normal link, the one she's formed with you, and I think there is also something going the other way, something from you to her."

                So many things about this were so hopelessly fucked up, he couldn't even think. "You felt me fall asleep," he repeated.

                "Yes," Xavier nodded, "and as per your request, I stayed out of the dream. I simply began to probe the link, when it appeared. And when she felt me, she pulled out, immediately. I couldn't quite get a fix on her, but it's enough to know that she isn't far away."

                "You didn't see the dream." It was meant to be a question. But it sounded utterly flat. Perhaps it was his lack of belief in the subject. 

                He shook his bald head, "No. I was sorry to wake you, when I sent Archangel to you, but the only way for me to catch her is for her to actually enter your thoughts. By that time, the dreams would have begun, and whatever she's taking from you, she would already have taken. I can stay awake, and guard you as you sleep. But I don't think I will notice her until her activities have begun. Not unless I am sleeping _with you."_

                He ignored that last sentence, for the sake of his own sanity, and latched on to the earlier part of the statement. "What is she… taking from me?"

                A long breath out, almost a sigh, "I don't know, Jean-Paul. But judging from your physical state, I'd say she's some sort of… psychic vampire."

                Jean-Paul actually laughed at that. A horrible, chilling laugh, totally devoid of mirth. Oh, wasn't that just brilliant? _"Merveilleux ! Magnifique!"_ he covered his face with one hand and let the sarcasm spill freely. "You mean to tell me… that not only is she in my head when I sleep… and _only_ when I sleep… but she's also draining my… my…?"

                "Your psychic energy, and apparently your physical energy," Xavier filled in the blank, his once utterly flat tone now suddenly warm. Understanding. Apologetic.

                Somehow, it didn't help him to feel any better. In fact, it seemed to scrape against the grain of him. He just laughed, however. Because there was nothing else he could do, at the moment. He was completely, utterly powerless.  And he simply could not think straight. 

                "I felt an exchange of energy flowing back from you, Jean-Paul, and it's obvious that your body is not working as it should be. That cut, on your lip—"

                "I realize what the cut on my lip means," he snapped, shooting a look at the Professor that should have been lethal. "It means I'm not healing properly, as well as not adjusting to the lack of sleep."

                Quiet now, for just a moment, as he rubbed at his temples slowly, trying to calm his pounding heart, his flaring temper. Xavier was here to _help_ him. He hadn't seen the dream, he didn't know what had happened to him in it, and he wasn't going to invade his mind like… _her_. _Calme__._ Relax, Beaubier. Think. 

                "You're the most powerful psychic in the world…," he began, but trailed off. Already it had come out wrong. Accusatory. 

                But Xavier knew, even if he had stopped himself. "And still, I cannot stop her. No, not until she's already started. Something about her link, something about when she touched you. I could stop her perhaps, if I were entirely in your mind, as I said, sleeping _with you. But that would require…"_

                "That I let you into my head," now Jean-Paul finished. 

                The Professor only nodded.

                "Are you certain she wouldn't be able to touch me, if you were there?"

                A moment's hesitation.

                And it was all he needed. "Forget it, Xavier. I'll take my chances, if you don't mind."

                "Northstar… Jean-Paul… you need to sleep."

                "I slept. Now, I wait."

                Honestly, he was surprised Xavier hadn't simply _forced his way into his mind and __put him to sleep. _

                But he hadn't. Jean-Paul assumed this was because he didn't really believe he could stay awake much longer.

                Jean-Paul, for his part, was determined to prove him wrong. It was 7am Monday morning, and he was staring at his lesson plan, preparing for his nine o'clock class. Or, rather, attempting to. He honestly couldn't gather enough of a thought together to be considered preparing or planning for much of anything. 

                All night, he'd watched TV. Just to have some noise, some companionship. Something other than the weight on him that bore such a striking similarity to madness. Alone. The house had been silent as the grave, and he'd stayed awake. On his own. And he was very, very alone. 

                He'd never really been the sort to crave company. It was always the company of someone in particular he'd desired, if it happened at all. He'd grown up lonely, after all. It was nothing new to him, finding his own way in life. There had been a few years in his life, when he'd been happy with the company that surrounded him. In France, with the circus, oddly enough. With Cell Combattre. Sometimes, with Belmonde. 

                But he was no circus performer anymore, nor an unwitting terrorist. And Belmonde and most of his friends from the FLQ were dead. And Jeanne-Marie was gone. And Joanna…

                Christ. They were all gone. And some things, he would never have. 

                A knock. Quiet. 

                "It's open," he called, rubbing at his burning eyes quickly. God, what had he been doing again…?

                A blonde head, the most heroic face he'd ever seen. Worthington, of course. "Jean-Paul, I… the Professor asked me to take your class today."

                He felt his jaw clench, involuntarily, and he looked back down at the notebook opened before him on his desk. "And why, may I inquire, did he ask such a thing of you?"

                "There was no insult intended, Northstar," he stepped inside completely now, shut the door behind him. All six feet, and twelve foot wingspan of him. "He just thought you could use the break. And I agree. I just wanted to talk to you about it first, see what you needed me to do."

                "I don't _need_ a substitute, Warren."

                "No… but you could _use one. You have a mission to get ready for."_

                He looked back, at the other man's face. And saw nothing but honest concern there. No patronizing grin, no amusement in his blue eyes. Just worry.

                And he was speechless, for just a moment. This man, this angel, was not his friend. In fact, he'd been nothing if not irritated with him, of late.  

                Literally and figuratively, an angel. Michelangelo never painted one so lovely. 

                "You have a lesson plan?"

                Again, he looked down at the notebook, "Yes… yes of course. I was just… going over it."

                Warren came to him now, leaned over the back of his chair, looked down over his shoulder. "Show me what you need me to do." 

                Kurt sat in that alarmingly animal position he seemed to enjoy, like Spider-Man crouched on a rooftop.  It gave him the appearance of a gargoyle, really, with his pointed ears and thrashing spaded tail. Something terrifyingly graceful. "Where is Bridget?" came the fuzzy elf's muffled voice from the distance.

                Bobby came bounding around the corner, sunglasses firmly in place, "On her way, Kurt. Five minutes for the lady, huh?"

                Baring his fangs in that alarmingly enchanting smile of his, Kurt only nodded, "Of course. We have time. A half hour, to be precise. What are you so early for?"

                Bobby laughed and continued a conversation with his fuzzy blue friend, sitting next to him on the stone wall near the driveway to wait for the others. 

                Northstar stood back, nearer to the front door, and watched. And tried not to hurt quite so much, thinking about everything that had happened. No, none if it had _really happened. But he'd felt it all. And he'd spent all day pretending he couldn't still feel his hands on him, couldn't still hear him breathing his name in his ear. _

                In a way, it was a shame Warren had taken the class. At least he would've had something else to think about.

                Only, he knew damn well he would not have been able to think at all. He still couldn't. And the proximity of one Robert Drake was not making it any easier.

                Not to mention the dirty looks from Alex, who was presently staring a hole through the back of his head. And had been since he'd come outside to try and think, and to wait. He had nothing to do, of course. Everyone had seen to that—at least, everyone who knew something was wrong with him. He could feel them all, tip-toeing around him. And it made him want to scream. 

                But soon, he'd have his chance. He could feel it, somehow. In his stomach. In his chest. He'd have his chance to get free. A chance to end it. 

                End her. 

                And take back what she'd taken from him. 

                Any sense of peace he might have made, with his losses, with his life, she'd done her best to ruin it, wreck it from the inside out. And for what? For what? Because he'd stopped her from killing a girl? Because he was a man? For what reason would she do this to him?

                _Because I can._

                A shiver ran down his spine, as he heard the words in his head again. As if she was there, speaking them.

                "Cold, Northstar?" A rather sarcastic voice inquired.

                Slowly, calmly, Jean-Paul turned his head to look at the man who had intruded upon his brooding. Almost everyone knew something was wrong, that much was entirely clear. They'd all noticed, and those who had not had no doubt been warned. Only one person, one man, would be speaking to him in such a tone of voice right now.

                Alex Summers.

                It was quite ironic really. It was not a Summers trait to excel at sarcasm. Americans in general were not the best with it, really, and it didn't get a whole lot more straight up gosh darn honest to god American than a Summers. From the heroic jaw-lines to the brooding good-boy-forced-to-be-a-rebel attitudes. 

                It failed to impress him, needless to say.

                "Did you want something, Havok?" Not that he cared. He really wasn't even curious anymore, as to why he'd been getting dirty looks since roughly this time yesterday. He was tired, pissed off, used, depressed, aching, and suspecting that he might be showing a few signs of sleep-deprived insanity. Alex Summers and his dirty looks were near the bottom of his list of issues to deal with at the moment. 

                "Yeah, I did," the blonde man stood next to him now, speaking in a hushed tone so that Kurt and Bobby, facing the opposite direction and involved in their own conversation, wouldn't hear. "You might say I have a bone to pick with you, in fact."

                "Well, right now may not be the most opportune time for that, _mon__ ami. We're leaving soon, and I've got other things on my mind. So if you would—"_

                "This will only take a minute of your busy day, I promise you that."

                Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow dangerously at his teammate. Calm. Think. Use your head, Beaubier. "I suppose this is about the looks."

                Alex's lips bunched up, his eyebrows moved together in an almost comedic expression of confusion.

                "The looks," he elaborated, with a long-suffering expression, "the horrible ones you've been shooting me since yesterday?"

                He wasn't absolutely certain… but it really did seem that Alex's ears were going a bit pink. The muscles in his jaw worked for a moment, and his eyes flashed. Not quite anger… but definitely concern. He was trying his best to look stalwart, at least. "What did you say to Annie?"

                Ah. Of course. Annie. They certainly had nothing else in common to talk about. Lovely. So this strapping young alpha-male needed to piss a line around his territory, apparently, even when he knew damn well that the prospect of the "other man" being interested in stealing his mate were absolutely zero. He knew Alex wasn't the quickest of cats, but he really hadn't expected stupidity of _this magnitude from him. "Well, don't waste time with pleasantries, by all means, just come right out and—"_

                "Enough of your bullshit, Jean-Paul," the other man cut in sharply, and out of the corner of his eye, Northstar saw both Bobby and Kurt shoot glances in his direction, then move off a little further, as if to look at Bobby's car. But they weren't moving too quickly. "She was fine yesterday before she talked to you. Then, you two were out in the yard, talking, and she was a wreck all day. She refused to talk to me about it last night, and she's still depressed. Whatever you said to her… you hurt her."

                This made him stop, for just a moment. Wade through the haze of confusion he was having trouble keeping track of, think of everything he'd said to her. Yes, he'd asked her to leave… but he'd been certain she understood. Sarcastic façade dropping for a moment, he only said, "I didn't say anything… nothing that would have hurt her."

                A noise halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped the blonde man, and he shook his head as if in disgust. "I'm serious about this. I saw her face, when she was coming inside. She was upset. Whatever you said, you'd better make it right, because she's—"

                "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps she's simply concerned for my health?" 

                He could feel the shaking beginning. Inside of him. It started in his stomach, a sick, vibrating sort of sensation. And it moved out through his limbs from that center, ending in his fingers, his toes. He had to fight not to curl his hands up into fists. 

                Because what the fuck did Alex Summers know about what was happening to him? 

                And who the fuck was he to confront him about _anything that was said between him and Annie?_

                "Don't fuck around, Jean-Paul. It was more than that—"

                "No," he said, quietly, but dangerously enough to stop the other man mid-sentence. 

                They just stared at each other for a moment. Tension so heavy it was painful, physically excruciating. 

                And then, Jean-Paul let fly everything he'd needed to since the whole thing had begun. His voice remained cold, but in a terrible, frostbitten way. And his eyes never let go of the other man's, not for a moment. 

                "No, you don't know a thing about what's happening here. What did I say to Annie? I told her about my step-mother, my adopted mother. I told her about my nightmares, my insomnia. I told her about a ghost that is haunting me, stealing my breath, my sleep, my soul. _That is what I said to Annie," he took a step closer now, purposely pushing into the larger man's space, willing him to start a fight so that he could hurt someone, anyone, right now. "And here comes her knight on a white horse, here to save her from the one thing we all crave, friendship. I told her what I told her because I __trust her. She _wants_ me to trust her, and I don't want _anything_ from her but that, her trust. Of all the people in this house to get jealous of, Summers, you have chosen the wrong fucking man. _

                "Why does she talk to me? Why does she care? I have _nothing here, and she came here for __you. I can appreciate that. Do you appreciate it? Do you understand the depth of commitment involved in what she did for you? Walking into the middle of a thing she doesn't understand, a thing she fears, all for some dreams and a totally intangible concept called love? Oh, of course you do, excuse me," he started to sneer now, feeling his lip curling up, hearing his voice drop even lower, almost to a hiss. "You're the great Alex Summers! I've _seen_ how you appreciate your loved ones. Waiting until the wedding day to leave Lorna at the altar, very manly of you, __mon__ ami. Did you talk to her? Tell me Alex, did she trust you? Does Annie? What happens when the next woman comes along?"_

                If looks could kill, he knew he would be dead by now. In fact, he might deserve it, as small part of his mind pointed out. Was it _really so bad for Alex to inform him that he'd upset Annie somehow? To tell him he wanted him to make it right? Perhaps he could've gone about it a little more intelligently…_

                But he told that part of his himself to shut the fuck up, while the rest of him ranted. God, he needed this. 

                He still wasn't certain he _wouldn't end up dead, however. Alex had a vein throbbing in his forehead that looked rather threatening, at the moment, and his eyes were burning hot and livid into Jean-Paul's own. He didn't back down an inch, held his ground, and even used the small height advantage he had over his Canadian teammate to look down on him. And he whispered, his voice dripping with venom the other man had never heard from him before, "Don't you __ever talk about Lorna to me. And don't you __ever talk about Annie, either. I would __never hurt her."_

                "I'm not the one with the dreadful track record, when it comes to women," Jean-Paul stated, flatly now, all emotion drained from his voice now that he'd finally been able to lash out."Or men, for that matter. I suggest you find another way to prove your alpha male status than trying to take out Annie's male friends. It only makes you look pathetic, you realize."

                "This isn't about jealousy, this is about the look on her face! You're twisting my words, I'm not trying to prove anything here! I'm just worried about her! You have a wicked fucking tongue, Jean-Paul, and you know it! I've heard what you can do to people, reduce them to nothing with a few words! If you said something to her, I want you to make it better." He suddenly raised his voice again, and the far off conversation between Kurt and Bobby suddenly ceased as they both turned concerned sideways glances at them. 

                "Get over yourself, Summers," Jean-Paul just shook his head, utterly finished with the conversation. "You sound like some high school kid trying to prove himself worthy of the pretty girl. I didn't say anything hurtful to her, and if you bothered to talk _to_ her instead of _for her, you might have known that. Did you _ask_ her if it was something I'd said?"_

                Alex took a deep breath, and his mouth opened, as if he'd speak. His ears were most definitely pink, now. His hands were balled up into fists.

                "_Non, of course you didn't."_

                "She wouldn't talk to me about it. She said it wasn't… something she was at liberty to say. But I swear to god, Jean-Paul, if I _ever _have to see that look on her face again…" he let it trail off, leaving the threat open.

                Jean-Paul, for his part, laughed aloud. He couldn't resist. "I wish you _would _hit me. You have no idea how I've been dying to lay into someone today," he leaned closer now, whispering the words, taunting the other man with a smile. "Just _give me the chance." The last four words were a growl, more than actual spoken words. Low, rumbling, and hanging over both of their heads like a black cloud. _

                "Northstar!" Bobby was yelling for him, suddenly, somewhere in the direction of the driveway. "Hey, Northstar! You ready man?"

                Unflinchingly staring Havok down, he did not bother to reply to Bobby, but continued on the roll he'd been on. "And Annie had better not find out about this. If she ever thought you'd taken it upon yourself to _protect_ her, or whatever this ridiculous display here is about, she'd end you faster than I could. And believe me, Summers. I'm fast."

                And then, he turned to go.

                But he felt a hand on his shoulder.

                And froze. Oh god. God, he wanted to hurt him. His insides were shaking with anger, his stomach roiling. 

                "Wait. Wait, I… this happened all wrong. I didn't mean for it to sound… like that. I just… I just wanted you to make it better, whatever it was."

                He didn't bother turning around. He could hear it, in Alex's voice. Regret. 

                He was familiar with the emotion.

                And he knew damn well that he had twisted the other man's words up. As an excuse. Blown it out of proportion, made it into something it didn't have to be, just so he could rage at something… someone.

                But all the same, he couldn't bring himself to give a fuck. "You should've thought of that before you started beating your chest at me, then, don't you think?"

                And he started walking again, towards the staring figures of Nightcrawler, Iceman, and now Bridget.

                "Jean-Paul, I didn't mean it like that!"

                But Jean-Paul wasn't listening anymore. 

                To her credit, Jubilee had been right about looking at least eighteen. Despite her youth, the proper application of certain quantities of make-up, combined with a long stretch of time in rollers and under Paige's hairdryer, had left her looking… just about right. 

                She fidgeted like a pre-teen, however.

                "Calm down, child," Jean-Paul was unable to keep silent anymore, sitting beside her in the van. "You're supposed to be an empowered feminine goddess, not an adolescent mall rat for the love of god."

                He could _see_ her fighting not to stick her tongue out at him.

                "You look great, Jubes," Bobby grinned from the other side of her, patting her on the leg. "Don't sweat it, just take it easy like the flyboy here tells you, and it'll all go great."

                Quickly forgetting any anger she may have felt toward Northstar, she shook her head and ran a hand through her dark mass of hair self-consciously. "I know, I know, I'm just getting pre-show jitters. I'll be fine once I'm on stage."

                Wolverine growled from behind them, "Sure you will, darlin'. Just stick to the plan, and we'll be right here waitin' for ya when ya come out."

                She nodded, and was clearly attempting a smile as they pulled up near the building. _Her building._

                Tired. Sick. Still shaking inside. He could barely follow the conversation.

                Jubilee climbed over Bobby, and moved into the back with Wolverine for a last-minute pep talk. Kurt and Bridget started making their way back from the front as well. 

                And Jean-Paul just stared out the window. 

                Bobby politely moved his legs so the others could get by, then watched them head into the back. When they were gone, busy discussing something about the wire tap on Jubilee, he turned to Northstar. "What did he say to you?"

                "Who?" Of course, he knew who. But he was feeling difficult. After over 72 hours, he was entitled to be a little difficult. 

                "Don't be a dick," Bobby frowned at him, "Alex. He's been looking pissed off all day, and Annie's been looking irritated or something too."

                Jean-Paul shrugged, unwilling to think about it. "Sounds like some sort of sexual inadequacy issue to me, none of my business really."

                Bobby snickered at him now, "Probably has to do with living in Scott's shadow his whole career as a superhero or something."

                Actually, that almost made him smile. Until he looked the other man directly in the eye. Until he felt that ache in him, of having something, and feeling it pulled away from you. Feeling something you've wanted, needed, for so long turn into something you hate. The one thing you hate. 

                "Look, fuck it, right? We're here for Jubes, huh?"

                Jean-Paul managed a nod at his teammate's encouraging grin. 

                And sucked at the metallic wound on his bottom lip a little more.

                It occurred to Northstar, as Jubilee entered their little clubhouse, that if he fell asleep, the game would be up. Because she would enter his head, and she would know what he was up to.

                And then, at the very moment the door closed behind her, with Kurt, Bobby, Logan, and Bridget all watching the feed from the pin on her coat, listening to the wire tap… he realized that she probably already knew.

                "Get her out."

                They all turned to look at him, in varied states of shock.

                Christ. Stupid. How had he been so incredibly fucking stupid? If she knew about Jeanne-Marie, Asgard, Joanna, and Bobby, why the fuck wouldn't she know about this? 

                "She's been in my head. Maya has been in my head."

                Kurt, of course, was the only one who really knew what that meant. And his glowing eyes widened in recognition of the problem. "_Scheisse__. She knows?"_

                Northstar shook his head, "I don't know for certain… but she might."

                "What are you talkin' about?" Logan growled, looking up from his seat, dangerously, at Jean-Paul.

                "She's a psy-vampire, who works through dreams, nightmares…" Jean-Paul tried to remain calm, knowing damn well that this was nothing they didn't know. But perhaps they hadn't put it together just yet. The circles under his eyes. The times he'd been awakened in the past few days by other X-Men, thrashing and screaming. 

                Bobby's mouth turned into a perfect pink "o," and Logan shook his head. Bridget just stared, as if comatose. 

                "Holy shit, Jean-Paul you're kidding. She's been fucking with you… with your head?" This from Bobby, who looked utterly terrified at the prospect. 

                "Get her out," was all he said. 

                Jean-Paul stared at his charge, utterly, hopelessly wrecked. 

                If anything happened to Jubilee… if anything happened to Bridget…

                She smiled at him encouragingly, "Don't let it worry you, Northstar. Even Kurt said they were going to have to go in after her, eventually. This just sort of… sped things up."

                They were gone, and from the sound of Jubilee's wire tap, they had their hands full. Jubilee, he was happy to see, was fighting admirably, and, as she would've put it, "kicking some ass." 

                But it was his fault. Kurt had wanted him out, and he'd refused. And now it was blown all to hell. Of course, they'd been ready for Jubilee. Closed the door and immediately tried to restrain her. Kurt had thrown off a quick, "Stay with Bridget, just in case," in his direction before teleporting to her side. Logan had shot out the door, and Bobby had already begun his ice-slide by the time he'd looked up. 

                Tired. Tired, and foolish. There was no excuse for this. None at all.

                Of course, he hadn't known she was taking anything from him, not really. Not until talking with Xavier in the wee hours… He'd thought… he'd thought…

                No, there was no excuse. She knew everything about him. And it was _his _responsibility to inform the team of that, of the risk he posed by being included. Xavier wouldn't have known, he had no idea the extent to which Maya _knew _what was in his head. No. No one knew, not really. 

                Except him.

                And he had failed. Failed Bridget, failed Jubilee, failed his teammates. 

                And fucked himself over royally, in the process, of course. But it seemed of little importance, really, considering the mutant meltdown occurring on the fifth floor of the student apartment building the van was parked next to.

                He scrubbed at his face, then put his head in his hands for a moment, elbows on his knees. 

                Fuck. Just… fuck.

                She put a small hand on his shoulder, and ducked next to him. "It's ok, Jean-Paul. They'll be fine."

                They would, of course. There was no reason four X-Men couldn't take out seven college kids. No reason at all, even if one of them was likely to be _her_. 

                But they had meant to do this with minimal damage. And they had meant to do it quietly. Discreetly.

                Lucky they'd planned for the worst, really. With him there for bad luck.

                He blinked… heavily… 

                And when he opened his eyes again… she was there. 

                Only this time, it was for real. 

                He looked around, quickly, spotted Bridget hiding in the corner, behind the open door of the van, staring at him, wide-eyed. She must've walked right in, while he was sitting there… 

                Before he could think, he was on his feet, and had her by the neck, slammed against the van door, slamming every mental shield he had into place. 

                And she smiled at him, with dark red lips, held up a hand slowly. 

                With lightning fast speed, he took her wrist and slammed it against the door as well. Painfully hard, and without giving any quarter. He _hoped_ it hurt. Badly. 

                And saw a spider crawl out from under his hand, where it connected with her skin, and run up his arm with alarming quickness. 

                "_Marde__!"He pulled his hand back quickly, and saw it there. A tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Of a spider. Small, black, and somehow absolutely terrifying._

                Mesmerizing. 

                So… tired.

                He felt her touch, just as he launched his shoulder into her, pushed the door open with her under him. He meant to start to fly, carry her away. Fast. To knock her out. To get her away from Bridget. Nothing was making any sense, but he knew he had to protect Bridget. 

                The shields in his mind this time helped… but the blackout was, most likely, inevitable.

AN: Thanks for sticking it out guys! Almost there now! This entire story is the product of my own insomnia, and I need to take this public opportunity to thank Sue for slogging through this chapter, full of all the angst of my sleepless Thanksgiving. You should get a medal for this, you know ;)

The M:  Your approval of the last dream means so much to me. I know how dedicated you are to the cause (Bobby + JP = hot, and we both know it,) so I'm blown away that you enjoyed it so much. You're a darling. 

Beenieweenie: Really glad you've continued reading. I hope the next dream holds up to the standard I set before hand, with vividness. Feel free to let me know if I fail you!

Akuma no Tsubasa: I'm happy you're interested, and happy you adore JP as well ;) Hope you're still out there reading, and thanks so much for the feedback.

Jander: Thank you for the sweet comments, and I hope you're doing well on your search for more JP info. And yeah, Jono is amazing. We DO seem to have similar taste in mutants!

TKD: If you made it this far, congratulations! I wish I could say there was a prize for it, alas, just angst. That's all we have round these parts, of late. Glad you're back, and looking forward to more of your lovely Kurtness! 


	10. Dream the Fifth: Just Like Me

Dream the Fifth—Just Like Me

                _He was flying. Flying fast, with the wind on his face and rest of Alpha Flight behind him, over __Toronto_.___ And he was not_ pleased about it. He was flying as fast as he could, despite the pain, to get away from them. If only they hadn't followed him, distracted him, Clementine would be alive now. And he wouldn't be so winded. Wouldn't be injured. It felt as if his ribcage was caving in, even now… the explosion that killed her had hit him hard.  __

_                He tried not to think of it. The terror of seeing her, the woman he had been racing to save, his ex-comrade, once known as Numèro Deux, lifeless on the floor of the abandoned theatre she'd been hiding in. Just like Jacques the night before. His friends. His family, once upon a time. Or, as close as he'd ever had to a family, before __Aurora__.___

_                Who was now chasing him in a concentrated effort to stop him from saving the lives of Numèro Trois and Lettre A. Two more once-upon-a-time members of his "family" from all those years ago, when he'd been involved with Cell Combattre.**[1]**_

_                God, how it hurt to hear Jeanne-Marie accuse him of returning to terrorist activities. To know that she did not believe in his promise to her, to stop all violent resistance, to let it go, and let it be in the past. _

_                It broke his heart, really, to hear it. Made him sick to his stomach, thinking of how honest he'd been with her. How much he would give up for her._

_                And she would never believe in him. _

_                But that was not his main concern right now. He had to be single minded, if he was the save the rest of his friends from death. Just concentrate on the wind in your face, Jean-Paul, the feeling of flying. Don't think about the pain. Just think about the job.   _

_                He found  them just where he'd expected— Numèro Trois and Lettre A, warned them. And they accused him… of being there to betray him…_

_                How was it that it all felt so… familiar? _

_                Non, he swore to them in French… it felt like he had not had a conversation in his native tongue in years, for some reason. Non, I came to warn you…_

_                Desperately, he pleaded, but they would not listen. Pulled their guns on him, his old friends._

_                And then, Alpha Flight showed up._

_                And all hell broke loose._

_                An explosion. A gunshot. His own teammates fighting him, his ribs about to collapse into his lungs. Crushing him. Burning him. He saw it, as they went up in flames, his friends, his compatriots. Heard them scream. Felt tears jump into his eyes, as the wave of heat from the fire hit him. _

_                Four. Four dead. Two left. Three, counting him. _

_                No… he had to get to Lettre B and Lettre C… could not let them all die… all of his friends. He had believed in something, once. With them. He had hoped to make a difference, had fought for freedom. In a panic, he shook of Vindicator's hand, shot off into the night, as fast as his tired, bruised, wrecked body would take him. _

_                Wait… no… no that was wrong. _

_                He could remember now. He hadn't flow off, after that… he'd stayed with them, with Alpha Flight. To save them, his comrades. _

_                Why was he flying away? It was wrong… all wrong.    _

_                But suddenly, the city below him disappeared. And he was flying into nothing… with a weight in his arms. Arms around his neck. Long, dark hair blowing past his face. And violet eyes turning up to meet his._

_                "Remember what it was like, Jean-Paul? Remember when you would have broken your promise to your sister, protected your terrorist friends from the Canadian government—"_

_                He wanted to drop her… but he couldn't. He could not force his arms to open, to let her fall. She put her cheek to his, her lips close to his ear. He could feel her breathing. He felt a shiver… and flew a little faster. _

_                God… god why…?_

_                "You're not answering me, Jean-Paul…"_

_                He gritted his teeth, trying so hard to let go. To force his body to obey his commands. Why could he go faster, but not simply let her fall? Into the blackness below them, all around them. Let her fall and end it. _

_                It wasn't real. This wasn't happening again. If he could let her go… he had been with Bridget… wake up, wake up, wake _up. _"I wouldn't have gone back to it," he snarled. "I meant what I said to her. Why don't you do me a favor and die, hm?"_

_                "Charming, darling."_

_                He felt a twitch at the sound of her calling him that. "What do you want from me?" he asked.  He  tried to speed up… and couldn't. He could not possibly go faster. _

_                For some reason, that made him angrier than anything else about the entire situation. _

_                "Your sanity, really," she said it almost conversationally. As if it were a perfectly natural thing to want from him. "I'm sure your little psychic friend, whoever the hell it was, told you what it is I do. I felt him, I know he's powerful. But yes, I want to suck you dry," her whisper was low in his ear, her breath hot, making his skin crawl, "use every last bit of your mind I can, make myself stronger… and then leave you empty."_

_                He wanted to kill her. Honestly and truly, with every fiber in his being, he wanted to see her die. He hated her more than he could remember ever hating another human being in his life. For what she was doing to him. For how much she loved it. For her legs around his waist and her lips on his ear. For the way he felt like spiders were crawling all over him, when he thought of her. For the way she had her arms wrapped coyly around his neck. For the sheer insanity of what she was saying. And now, when he opened his mouth to ask her why, what it was about him that made her hate him so much, made him a worthy victim… he found he could not even speak._

_                "You don't have to speak," she answered his unspoken question, now tracing a finger idly over his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against his, making him nauseous. "I know what you're thinking, remember? I know everything about you, pretty boy. And I have my reasons. First of all, you fucked with me. That little bitch you're trying to protect, Bridget? She deserved to be shot, for what she did to us. Do you think it's because she didn't like our "terrorist activities?" Think she was some kind of hero? Oh no, no, my dear innocent one. She was angry because we didn't let her in. Didn't need her. She's not even a mutant, you know. _

_                "And don't pretend she's such a hero. Did you sell out your friends, when you found out what they were up to? No, of course not. You talked to them, begged them to stop. Stupid, naïve, weak of you, yes. But then, you're a man, so what more could the world expect?"_

_                Oh god. He was burning up inside, shaking so hard. He wanted to vomit, it made him so sick, the hate, the rage.  Her, in his arms. Her breath leaving that horrible moisture on his ear… fuck, he wanted to let go… why couldn't he _let go?!__

_                "Because you're in my world, now. I am goddess here. I'm  your Devi."_

_                An unfamiliar sound, like a bird, like a cat. Perhaps like a small child playing somewhere far off. Exotic. _

_                A peacock. It was the sound of a peacock. He wasn't certain how he knew it, but that's definitely what it was._

_                Dirt under his feet, a barren plain and a dusty path. Flat, as far as the eye could see. Alien trees and an endless sapphire sky. And one house, a huge house. Palatial. Whitewashed and alone, foreign design and marble staircase. _

_                And he had no fucking clue where he was. Or what he was doing. But he was most definitely not in __North America__, and certainly not in _Europe___. _

_                Another sound now, drifting to him from the house. The sound of finger symbols and a harmonium. Sounds he had not heard in a long time, not since he'd been with the circus… the tune was winding, exotic. A scale he was unfamiliar with, a sort of flow, a continuity of the melody that was beautifully foreign. _

_                Intrigued, he began to walk toward the mansion. He could see people, in bright reds and yellows and white mostly, on the front porch, on the stairs. Huge columns held up arches—not of any of the Roman or Greek orders, and not the stable, perfectly rounded arches of the European architects. Scalloped, almost to a fleur de leis. Perfect and marble, the curve lending life, breath to the coldness of the marble. So bright, the clothes of the people on the stairs. So alive, the music he heard. He could smell it now, something sweet burning. Incense, he knew. Nag champa and the smell of something spicy, some sort of food that made his stomach growl hungrily. Onions and chili powder and something strikingly different, pungent. _

_                The faces were all smiling, when he saw them. Brown faces, beautiful and peaceful. Some singing, some praying, some laughing. _

_India__. Of course, he was in __India__. _

_                He put his foot upon the first step before he saw her, sitting there. A young girl, perhaps twelve, no more than thirteen. Her sari shawl pulled up over her head, her eyes cast downward. He knew she was trying to look demure. But she looked sad. So very sad. _

_                And all the others were facing her. Leaving plates at her feet, bowing their heads to her. Burning incense before her, asking her for gifts, for a blessing, for anything and everything. _

_                She looked up, as he stepped onto the stairs. And her large, dark eyes found his. Her full bottom lip began to shake, and her eyes pooled up with tears. _

_                He swallowed, hard. Something instinctive inside him explained what he was seeing. This girl, she was obviously considered some sort of living goddess. He'd seen what Hindus termed _puja_, or a worship service of sorts. And this was it. Flower garlands being hung about her neck. Music given to her. Offerings of food and incense placed before her. _

_                And she did not want to be a goddess. That much was painfully clear to him, when those eyes caught his._

_                Someone demanded her attention, however. Asked her a question, in a language he could not understand, even in his dream. A man stood, and went to her side, and answered for her. She sat, eyes downcast, throughout the entire exchange. And they brought her a boy. A sick, convulsing boy. He thrashed about as if possessed. When the man had finished speaking, he nodded to her. _

_                She didn't even look up. She simply reached out, and touched the boy's forehead, once._

_                Immediately, he stopped, and he went limp in his mother's arms. And her eyes flashed violet, in that instant. _

_                And Jean-Paul Beaubier felt sick._

_                Someone was screaming. _

_                A man. Half in English, half in that language… that language that tripped so lightly over itself, sounded like poetry, even without understanding. Even when yelling. _

_                "Are you crazy, woman … can't be trusted … _yeh ladki pagal hai_!"_

_                In a small, warm kitchen somewhere in __North America__. The same smells as before, only more intense. Garam Masala and onion. With a man. The same man who had stood up and spoken for the little goddess on the porch in _India__.___ He looked older now, his hair thinner, grayer, his eyes more wrinkled. _

_                But he was angry, that much was clear. _

_                The little goddess was in the corner, under the table. And she was no longer so little, perhaps a young woman of sixteen or seventeen. And she was no longer looking sad. As she watched her father, for he knew now that this was, indeed, her father, push her mother out of the way as he stormed out of the kitchen, her violet eyes held nothing but hate. The promise of violence. _

_                She watched her mother now, as she crawled out from under the table. _

_                And he was surprised to find that her expression changed very little, despite the change in subjects. "Why do you let him do this to us?" She demanded._

_                "He's your father, Maya…," was the only answer. _

_                He could see it on her face, her decision being made. The decision to take matters into her own hands. She reached out, and touched her mother's face…_

_                And the woman dropped to the floor instantly, in a deep sleep._

_                Maya, for her part, simply followed her father down the hall._

_                "There now," she whispered into his ear, "I've given something back to you. You understand now, don't you, Jean-Paul?"_

_                What he didn't understand, he felt her filling in for him, in his mind, without speaking a word. Her powers had manifested as an adolescent, and her father had decided that she was a manifestation of the ever-present goddess. Benevolent and giving. He had set her up as such. Worshipped her. _

_                And used her. For profit, for fame. Used her childhood. She didn't want to be the goddess. She just wanted to be Maya. _

_                "But I'm not weak," She began to speak aloud now, finally taking her lips from his ear, but now leaning closer to his own lips._

_                He was terrified, of course.  _

_                And Jesus, he wanted to drop her. _

_                But no. No, of course he couldn't. _

_                "Exactly, my friend. Because I'm your Devi. Just like I was his. Until he lost his mind utterly, for what he did to me, to my mother."_

_                Her mother…_

_                "Yes, I took her mind too. I needed it, once I figured out that it made me stronger, at least for awhile. She didn't last long, not like you will. Living with him, it didn't leave her much to work with. A husband's oppression is subtle. All husbands, not Indian ones. He doesn't have to come right out and beat his wife, to make his point, to drill it into her and repress her soul for eternity. _

_                "But only a weak woman would let it happen. And a weak woman is just as bad as a man. He may do it, but she enables it."_

_                She disgusted him so thoroughly that he really did find it difficult to pay close attention. Even so, it was painfully clear—her logic was so stunningly… broken._

_                "You're not the first to think that, love," she kissed his cheek now, softly, slowly, spoke with her lips moving against his skin. Her breath on him. Oh god, he couldn't even shiver, her hold was so complete. "But luckily, the truth does not depend on your belief in it to remain what it is—the truth. You remember truth, don't you? I know you do. You remember what it was like, fighting for your cause? Believing in your goal? Accomplishing small steps forward, with your friends, your family. Oh yes, I know they were like family to you. More than that schizophrenic nymphomaniac sister of yours could ever be."_

_                God… god… why did she insist on forcing him to relive every nightmare he'd already been through, on insulting him physically and verbally? Could he possibly burn any more inside without bursting, exploding, catching on fire spontaneously? _

_                Shields. He had mental shields. His dream, his nightmare had stopped last time, when she'd tried to take it somewhere it wasn't meant to go. He had stayed with Vindicator, in the real world, on that night when he was searching out the last two remaining members of Cell Combattre. With Box, Puck, Snowbird, and __Aurora__.__ Maya had tried to make him leave, in the dream. To make him watch his other friends die, as they would have, had he not stayed with Alpha Flight.. _

_                But no. It hadn't worked. Not this time…_

_                Her hands were growing more attentive now, playing with his wind-whipped hair, her voice more urgent. As if she could feel his thought process drifting out of her control. _

_                And, of course, he knew that was exactly what was happening. _

_                "I insult you because you deserve it," she was saying now, her lips hot on his neck when she paused for a moment. "You are weak, though not as weak as Bridget. And that is what makes me think you can understand why I do what I do. Why I fight. Why I take. You know what it is to have a common cause. You know what it is to accomplish something. And you know what it is to achieve it through fear. People are weak, Jean-Paul. Weak and foolish. They don't understand anything _but_ fear. So I give them what they need. And I will continue, until they understand. _

_                "Like we do. I know you understand, Jean-Paul. Because you're just like me. Selfish. Uncompromising. Needing to believe. Willing to do whatever it takes. You're just… like… me."_

_                He felt it, as if it were a sliding door in his head, snapping shut. His mental shield snapped fully into place. And with that, Jean-Paul opened his arms, and dropped Maya Patel into the blackness of her own nightmare.**[2]** _

  


* * *

[1] Rather than explain this in the story, allow me to just say here that Jean-Paul was once a member of an underground faction of Le Front de Libèracion du Quèbec, a Québécois sepratiste group, called Cell Combattre, using his power of speed to serve as a courier for them. He left them, once he discovered that they were nothing better than terrorists, and was never a party to any sort of violence himself. (However, he still held to his ideals of a free sovereign nation for the oppressed French-speaking people of Quebec.) The members of Cell Combattre all eventually left the terrorism and violence behind as well. In Marvel Fanfare #28, Northstar is called upon by an independent faction to "protect" and "warn" his ex-comrades from Cell Combattre that a vigilante killer is on the loose and looking for them. The faction turns out to be the problem, however, a vigilante called Scourge, and uses Northstar to find the former terrorists he cannot and wipe them out one by one. Normally, I'd just imply this sort of thing, and it wouldn't matter about the backstory. But in this particular case, I feel it's important to understand where he's coming from.

[2] Maya's story is a nod to Satyajit Rai, a brilliant Bengali filmmaker. If you know who I mean, you will note the similarities between her and the plot of the movie, _Devi. The man spoke volumes about oppression, subtle, psychological oppression. I don't mean to imply that it's an Indian problem, because it's not. It's a problem everywhere. But I happen to like Indian Cinema, so that's the example for the day._


	11. Chapter Six: Faster

Chapter Six: Faster

                When his eyes snapped open, he was flying, and fast. But he wasn't above Toronto, and he wasn't in an unnamed province in India. He was… 

                He could still feel the warmth of someone in his arms.  Someone with a spider on her wrist.. purple nails… those horrible… horrible eyes.  

                He turned around, mid air, looked down. His stomach dropped. Because he could see her, falling. He'd actually, really dropped her. Just as he had in the dream. 

                And he'd wanted to. He still wanted to.

                _You're just… like… me._

                In a flash, he was gone, and was suddenly underneath her, close to the street. He flew upward now, put his shoulder into her stomach in mid air, so that she bent in half with a cry of pain and surprise, draped over his shoulder. And he sped up, flying straight upward, then toward the east. Faster. Faster. His lungs were aching and his body was so tired… faster.

                She fought, at first, kicked at him. Screamed. Pounded into his back. Tried to reach behind her, to his face. And he just went faster.

                It only took a moment, for the lack of oxygen at such a high speed to knock her out. 

                And by that time, he couldn't think at all anymore. He just wanted to collapse into a pile. In fact, he wasn't even certain he would make it back to Bridget, to the van. He just… had nothing left. 

                And he still wanted her to die. 

                But he landed by the van, irrationally hoping the touchdown looked as graceful as usual, and put her inside. Watched her fall backwards, still out cold.

                Then, he sunk to his knees. Mainly because he wasn't certain he could continue to stand. 

                Bridget was beside him now, her arm around his shoulders, "God, Jean-Paul. Are you ok? What happened?"

                He forced the haze falling over him to clear, to think rationally. "Bind her hands and feet, Bridget. Can you do that for me, please?" He knew he should do it himself. But… he couldn't.

                She kissed his cheek, squeezed him, "Yes, Of course," and went to work immediately. And rather roughly, he noticed.

                 Not that he minded. "Don't let her touch you, whatever you do. Where are the others?" Fighting so hard to stay awake. He couldn't sleep, not until they were back. Not until she was safe. 

                She was back with him now, pushing his hair out of his face, looking at his eyes carefully through the visor. "Nightcrawler was here, after I told him what happened over the com link. He saw you fly away with her, and he said you could handle it, but to call him if anything went wrong. When… when you dropped her…"

                When she trailed off, he didn't say anything. He'd dropped her. He'd wanted to drop her.

                She hurt him. And he wanted to kill her.

                Did he really anymore though, now that it was over? Now that she was here, helpless, bound and alone. Wasn't she just… sad now?

                No… he still wanted to hurt her. But not kill her. No. He wasn't like her.

                Suddenly, Bridget's head snapped up, and she was looking behind him, "Shit!"

                He tried to turn, to stand and see who it was, what it was. Something threatening, but his body refused to respond to his commands.

                Bridget was on her feet in a second, however, and by the time he turned, all he saw was her fist slamming into a purple-haired woman's nose, crushing it and causing a trickle of blood to immediately start out of it. And Bridget, though by far the smaller of the two women, didn't stop there. She hit the staggering woman again, this time swinging with her left, connected with her jaw with a solid, meaty thud, and sent the woman reeling. Straight to the ground.

                "Christ!" She breathed, staring at her victim, wide-eyed, and shaking out her left hand. "Oh Christ, that felt good."

                In a heartbeat, she was tying the woman up, and had her moved next to Maya, in the van. 

                And then she was next to him again, pulling him into her arms. He didn't want to go, because he knew she would be warm, and he knew he would want to put his head on her shoulder… yes, like this. And he would want to close his eyes. "My hero," he laughed, sleepily. 

                She just took off his visor, carefully, and smoothed his hair. This tiny, little girl, who had just utterly destroyed a much bigger, conventionally scarier woman. From wrathful to benevolent in ten seconds flat. _That was the goddess. "Now we're even, huh speedy?"_

                He wanted to laugh again, as he leaned against her. He might have, really. It was hard to tell.

                Someone was picking him up, pulling him to his feet. "C'mon JP, let's get you home buddy."

                His eyes opened, but just barely, "Bobby…" 

                The smaller man had maneuvered himself under Jean-Paul's arm, and managed to drag him halfway to the door before his eyes finally managed to come open. "It's ok now, everything's fine. You did good, man. Real good. Just let me get you in here, so you can get some sleep."

                But there were more people around now, X-Men and others. He caught a glimpse of white, iridescent wings, not far off. And Paige's blond hair. And… so many others. He stopped moving in the direction Bobby was steering him and turned around, pulling his arm out of the other man's grip and taking a few shaky steps toward the cluster of people surrounding the other van—which had apparently arrived while he slept, on the ground, on Bridget's shoulder. 

                "Jean-Paul, don't, man, really," Bobby was saying, renewing his grip on his arm.

                But Jean-Paul didn't reply. Something was wrong, and he knew it. He could feel it. "Where's Maya?" He continued moving toward the knot of people, effectively taking Bobby with him, since the man did not seem to want to let go of him. 

                "She's already being taken back to the Institute. Drugged up. She's probably being put into a cell as we speak. Jean-Paul, listen man, don't. Just come with me, you need to sleep…"

                But he wasn't listening anymore. Because he saw who was in the van. Three men, all handsome, young. But one of them couldn't wake up. And one of them was shaking uncontrollably. And one of them just stared, an expression of perfect, mask-like horror on his delicate, almost feminine features. Dirty. Thin. Badly used.

                Warren was with them, trying to say something to one of them. But it was the starer. And  he wasn't responding. Not at all. 

                He felt his knees give out, knew he was going to end up on the concrete again.

                But Bobby caught him, from behind. "Oh no you don't. Jesus, man, I told you not to. Why the fuck can't you just listen," and he kept talking softly, as he dragged him back to the first van, the one he'd come in. 

                "I dropped her," he whispered, as Bobby commanded him to lie down properly on the seat. 

                "Yeah well, can't say I blame you. That's one sick little girl you've been dealing with this week. I would've let her fall." 

                He forced his eyes to stay open, to look at his friend for just a minute longer. So familiar, that face, even when it was twisted up in anger as it was now. "She did that to them." He knew he wasn't making sense. But the things he'd seen didn't make sense either. Those men… 

                Bobby nodded, "Yeah. Now that you've seen them I guess you might as well know. She had them locked up, in a room. Feeding off them. The one guy, who can't wake up… we figure he's about done in, mentally. But maybe the Professor can…"

                He shivered, violently.

                "God, I'm sorry. What the fuck is wrong with me, talking like this. Look, man it's over. You ended it, it's over," Bobby was now kneeling by the seat, resting one hand on Jean-Paul's chest reassuringly, his eyes scrunched up in that beguilingly sincere look he was so good at. 

                "It would've been me, if I hadn't, _non?"_

                Bobby nodded, "Yeah, Jean-Paul. But it wasn't. And it's not gonna be. So go to sleep. Sleep for days. No one's gonna fuck with you, or wake you up. They'll have to go through all of us first."

                Jean-Paul, too tired, too drained to even construct a sentence at the moment, patted Bobby's arm and tried to smile. "_Merci beaucoup." _

                If Bobby said anything else, he didn't hear it.

                He was in bed, in his underwear, and it was light outside.

                He had no idea what time it was, but he was in his own room, door shut, lights off, curtains drawn. And he felt like he'd been asleep for a year. 

                And it felt good. 

                He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then his face. He hadn't been so scruffy when he'd… what was the last thing he'd done…

                Fallen asleep. In the van. 

                How the fuck did he end up here?

                Whoever had done it, he silently thanked them as he pushed himself out of bed, and toward the bathroom in search of a toothbrush. His teeth felt… horrible. 

                As he went through his usual morning routine, for the first time in what felt like a long time, things started to slide into place in his mind. It took longer than usual to wake up—not that he was a morning person, but once he was awake, his mind was usually as sharp as ever. Brushing his teeth, he realized that he'd gone with the others to find Maya. Stepping into the shower, he realized that his stupidity, his unwillingness to talk to the rest of the team about what she had been doing to him (he suppressed a shiver at that, despite the hot water pouring over him.) Rinsing the soap out of his hair, he realized that he'd drifted off, and she'd found him. Drying his hair with a towel, he realized that he'd been caught by her, remembered the dreams she'd given him, and how he'd been able to resist this time.  

                Shaving, he realized that he'd almost murdered her.

                And he froze. 

                _You're just like me_.

                Jeanne-Marie… the trolls… Joanna… _him… Cell Combattre… a little girl in India.. ._

                He'd dropped her, above the city. Almost let her die.

                Jean-Paul slowly, carefully, finished shaving. Stomach rumbling threateningly, he pulled on the first shirt he found, and a neatly pressed pair of khakis from his closet. 

                And wished, just for a moment, that he was still too tired to think. 

                "You're up."

                A voice he did not want to hear, standing in the kitchen, his head in the refrigerator.

                It was five o'clock. On what day, he couldn't imagine. But he had a feeling it was Tuesday, somehow. He'd clearly slept through the rest of Monday. 

                And he did not want to hear that voice. Not now, and not any time soon.

                So, he ignored it, and continued moving around leftovers in search of something decent. His stomach was killing him.

                "Jean-Paul, don't pretend you don't hear me. Look, let's not act like kids. I got out of line—,"

                "Not now, Alex," he snapped. "I've been asleep for god knows how long, after 80something hours of being awake and tormented. If you don't mind, I'd like to eat in peace."

                "Yeah, back off man."

                That voice, he was a little happier about. If it had to be someone's…

                "Bobby—," Alex began, dangerously.

                "Let it go," Bobby's voice was coming closer now, toward him. "Man's had a rough week, ok?"

                "I just wanted to…," 

                "Save it," Bobby told him, now standing behind Jean-Paul.

                The sound of retreating footsteps told him that Havok had wisely taken Iceman's advice. And he realized that he'd been holding his breath. 

                "The guy has no respect for anyone, I swear to god. Thinks we should all bow down. He's worse than Scott. What a dick."

                Finally, Jean-Paul forced himself to stand up straight, and closed the door, turning to face Bobby.

                He wondered if he would ever forget what it felt like. Touching him like that. 

                Part of him hoped he would. And part of him knew he didn't really want to.

                "I thought you didn't hate him."

                Bobby grinned, "That's only when I'm drunk, Jean-Paul. How are you?"

                "Hungry."

                "Yeah, not surprising. I went up to check on you, but you were gone, so I figured this would be the most likely place to find you."

                "My hero."

                Bobby nodded, still grinning, "Just returning the favor."

                Miraculously, Jean-Paul felt himself smile. "I'm ok. I didn't need checking on."

                "Warren and I decided you did," he informed him. "Was nice, to see people concerned for someone other than themselves for once. So we took turns."

                He tried not to look surprised. He tried not to stutter, as he pushed out, "Thank you."

                But the other man just shrugged, "No big deal. You want some Taco Bell? I'm about to head out, and Hank needs to see you. I could pick you up something, and be back by the time you're done."

                Taco Bell… he could not honestly remember ever having eaten Taco Bell. But at the moment, anything sounded good. His stomach was slowly eating itself, from the inside out. "Thank you," he said again.

                "What you want?"

                A pause. "… What do they _have?"_

                Bobby actually laughed at that. "How about if I surprise you?"

                He nodded, "That might be best."

                "Can you make it down to Hank on your own, or do I need to carry you?"

                Those hands… those lips. He forced a smile. It would have been clever, if not for that dream.

                "I'm fine, thank you."

                Laughing again, "Alright, just take it easy. I'll be back with the Bell in a few. I swear, it makes everything better."

                A clean bill of health from Hank and a seven layer burrito later, he was sitting at the table digging into his second. It wasn't bad, really. It certainly wasn't _good_, but…

                "Jesus Bobby, this is drunk food," Warren laughed, taking a drink of his Coke. "What the hell compelled you to make a Taco Bell run?"

                Paige grinned around a mouthful of chalupa at him. 

                Jubilee laughed, "It is _not drunk food, wings! I've never even __been drunk and I love it!"_

                "So it's your fault!" Warren announced, taking a triumphant bite of his own unrecognizable tortilla product.

                "If you don't love Taco Bell, you're an old man, Worthington," Bobby nodded sagely, squeezing out more fire sauce onto his nachos. "Don't tell me you're an old man."

                Paige shook her head, finally having swallowed. "Not yet!"

                Jean-Paul, for his part, remained silent. He was glad for the company, really. Glad that he didn't have to be perpetually thinking of it. Of how those men had looked when they'd been taken from her apartment. Vegetative, unresponsive, sick. Of how he'd almost murdered someone.

                He'd wanted to kill people before, yes. People who'd hurt him, his friends, people he loved. 

                But he'd never come so close to letting it happen. It would have been so easy. To just… not save her. 

                "Alright, flyboy?" Jubilee asked him, with an elbow in his side.

                Mildly startled, he looked over at her while the conversation between the other three carried on. He knew he owed her an apology. But she was grinning, and the others were having a good time arguing about the pros and cons of horrible pseudo-Mexican fast food, and he couldn't bear to bring them all down with him. Not after how they'd taken care of him.

                He wasn't used to being taken care of. He wasn't certain how to react.

                "_Oui_, Jubilee. I'm fine. Just confused, still."

                "No damn wonder," she snorted. "We had no idea just _how fucked up that little operation was. You're a real trooper, you know that?"_

                He managed a smile at her, for that. She really was rather adorable, in that mall-dwelling American teenage way. "Well, I'm alive, anyhow."

                He stood next to Annie, in the infirmary. Looking at three sleeping men. All totally different in looks, other than the fact that they were all undeniably handsome. All three in different states of shock, from what she'd done to them. 

                "How long did she have them, Annie?"

                He felt, more than saw her shake her head. "We don't know yet. She's not talking, and the others claim not to know. They're lying, of course, but the Professor is wary of pushing things too much."

                "Will they be alright?"

                "James here, he'll be fine," she moved to stand next to the bed of the dark man he'd seen in the van, the one who'd been shaking. "He actually woke up not long ago, for a few moments. He was scared, but I talked him down, and gave him a mild sedative, to let him sleep some more." She then nodded at the next man over, with vaguely Asian features and that delicate bone structure that made him appear so girlish. The starer. "Kip… he will come out of it. The Professor can help him, he says. But Angelo…," she trailed off, as her eyes fell on the third man, the blonde who had been asleep the first time he'd seen them. "There isn't much left of him, Jean-Paul. She…"

                "Sucked the life out of him. Like she did to her parents. And god knows who else," He suddenly felt as if his bones had gone liquid, and collapsed into the nearest chair, staring at the man who would probably never open his eyes again. In a way, he was lucky. Lucky he wouldn't have to remember what it was she did to him. If he'd been through enough to make him comatose, it had to be far worse than anything Jean-Paul had experienced. And he knew she was capable of much worse. She was only just beginning to fuck with him, when she'd been bested.

                Annie came to him now, pulled up a chair in front of him, so that their knees were touching. Laid a hand on his leg, searching his face. "How do you know… about her parents?"

                He sighed. But he didn't have the energy to fight it, this time. He was awake, yes, he didn't feel tired. But this was a different kind of energy. It was the energy to pretend that he didn't mind doing it on his own. Because he bloody well did. "She showed me. Her father… he used her when she was a child, when her powers manifested. Made their family famous. They had a little goddess in the family, she could "heal" the sick and possessed. And then… they moved to America. Maybe Canada, I don't know. And now that he had what he wanted from her, he treated her like she was nothing, then like she was less than nothing. I don't think he… beat her, or her mother. But it was… more subtle. A sort of emotional… superiority issue. As if they didn't deserve a thought from him. I don't know, Annie…she showed me, though. Showed me why she did what she did."

                "I wonder why she would do that…"

                "She did it because she thought I would understand. She thought I was like her."

                Silence, as Annie just stared at him. He found that he did not want to meet her eyes. Not at all. 

                "Why… why would she think that, Jean-Paul? You're nothing like her…"

                "In a way. She… she knew my past, I told you. Showed me things, twisted things up in the most painful way possible. The last thing she tried to show me… did you know I was a _sepratiste_, Annie?"

                She shook her head, "I don't know what you mean."

                So, he spilled out the entire story of his past with the FLQ to her, there in the infirmary. His time with Cell Combattre, his attempt to rescue them, years later, from a plot. How he was used to track them down, how he watched three more of them die after his friend Jacques, the first man to ever give him something to believe in. 

                And when he was done, she was sitting there, hand at her throat, tears in her eyes.  "Oh God, Jean-Paul, I had no idea…"

                "I almost killed the man who did it to them, the one who called himself Scourge," he was whispering now, remembering the red rage in which he'd pounded through the man's body armor, bloodied both the man's face and his own hands until Heather and the others managed to pull him off, forced him to stop. "And you see, Annie, she knew all of this. In fact, she tried to make me dream that it had happened differently. Probably, she would have shown me the last two of them dying, if I had not thrown up some sort of shield just before she touched me. That's the sort of thing she liked to make me dream about.  She knew that I had once been a party to underground activities, for a cause I believed in. She knew I could understand oppression. She knew how I loved the people I'd worked with, then, how they were as a family to me. How I'd almost murdered in cold blood for revenge."

                "You didn't kill anyone," she stated firmly.

                He shook his head, "No, of course not. I never believed in violence as a way to achieve our goals. Then we would be no better than the government who rolled over countless innocents—,"

                "You're not like her, Jean-Paul. Not at all. It's not the same thing."

                He swallowed, hard. "I almost killed her too."

                Her eyes grew wide, but her bottom lip was quivering. She didn't look shocked, not really. She just looked… sad. "I would have."

                Now he felt his own eyes grow wide in reply. "No, you would not have. You are a nurse, at heart. You would never—,"

                "I would," she shook her head, cutting him off again. "I've wanted to before. But something like that… that might be enough to make me do it. Showing you such things, twisting your memories, stealing your life, your sleep, your…,"

                "My soul," he finished for her. He meant it in the purely figurative sense, of course. Jean-Paul did not really believe in such a thing as the eternal soul. But there was no other word he could think of, for what she'd been taking from him. Himself. 

                She nodded, "That's all we have, in the world."

                "I dropped her," he stated flatly, before he could stop himself. "I dropped her, from very high in the air. Just… let her go. I was dreaming, she'd touched me while I was trying to fly away with her, get her away from Bridget. And in the dream, I dropped her. When I opened my eyes—,"

                "You caught her."

                "I didn't want to… but…"

                "You're not like her, Jean-Paul."  

                He just looked at her for a moment. This amazing woman. The strength to follow her heart into the thing she feared most. To raise a son like Carter. To put up with a son of a bitch like Alex. And to tell him what he needed to hear most, in all the world. And to mean it. How did she do it? 

                "We all want to hurt people, sometimes. But some of us choose not to. And that's what separates us from the animals. Animals like Maya. Without that choice, we're nothing but animals."

                Jean-Paul closed his eyes, thankful now for his days worth of sleep not so long ago. Without it, he never would have been able to hold himself together, hearing her say things like that. 

                After a few minutes, she leaned back, took her hand from his leg, and he opened his eyes to see her smiling at him. "Alex told me what he said to you."

                From warm inside to hot. He felt his lip curling up in the most wicked sneer he was possessed of, uncalled for. He made a valiant effort to stop it, but he was not so collected as to be _that in control of his emotions. "Did I hurt you? Tell me the truth. Did I say something to you that was hurtful?"_

                She shook her head vehemently, "No, not at all. It was… it was what you said about your adopted mother. It just… I'm a mother. It made me so sad, to think of Carter… to think of you, small like him, and so alone. You looked… you looked so young when you said it. I've never heard you talk like that, about the past. I… didn't know. It just made me think, is all. And I couldn't tell him about it. It's not my story to tell."

                He nodded, "I'm sorry if it caused you any trouble with him. He was only trying to make things right. I overreacted."

                "I'm a big girl. And believe me, he's not going to forget it again any time soon."

                He laughed at the expression on her face now, and it came as a huge relief. Seemed to make tension in his shoulders he hadn't realized was there bleed out. One eyebrow raised, jaw set firmly, she was not a woman he'd want to cross twice, let alone once. "He tried to apologize to me earlier," he admitted. "But I was hungry and didn't want to hear it. I was rude to him. And Bobby saved me."

                Her eyebrow stayed raised, and arched a little higher at that. 

                "He brought me Taco Bell."

                Her nose wrinkled up at that. "Carter loves Taco Bell."

                "So does Jubilee, apparently."

                "I wanted to apologize to you, Kurt."

                It was the first thing he said, when he found the man outside, basking in the sunset behind the house. Kurt looked up from the bench, and smiled at him. "Sit with me, it's going to be a beautiful night."

                He obeyed the man's request, and looked into the west with him. Soon, the days would grow shorter. The trees were already red and yellow and orange on top, and the evening was growing chill rapidly. He had on his pea coat, himself, unbuttoned, and Kurt wore a light spring jacket with a red X logo on the chest. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize… I didn't think it through. I should not have been in on the plans, and I should not have come along."

                "It worked out, in the end, and no one was the worse for it." his golden eyes stared straight ahead, into the distance, over the treetops. "In fact, I'm certain Logan was happy for an out and out fight. He never did much care for subversion. And I cannot honestly blame you. There was no way to know that she was stealing such information from your head, in your sleep."

                "There was," he insisted, looking at the ground. "She was digging through my memories… through my hopes. She knew everything. I didn't even think about it. And I didn't tell anyone how bad it was. If I had, someone would have seen it. I allowed myself to become distracted, emotional, and I endangered everyone."

                A three-fingered hand fell onto his shoulder, as Kurt stretched his arm over the back of the bench. "Jean-Paul, my friend, no one blames you. I've had my share of nightmares, in this life. And my share of dreams. And there are very few of them I could handle being dug up, now that I've made my peace with them. And some of them I'm still making my peace with."

                Something in him knew that he didn't deserve this treatment. He didn't deserve to know a woman like Annie, who could look him in the eye and make him believe that he was not a monster, even if it was only for a moment. And he didn't deserve to know a man like Kurt, who could forgive the cardinal sin of the business so quickly, and make him believe that he truly understood. "But, I am sorry, _mon ami_, nevertheless."

                The hand left his shoulder, and now hung lazily over the back of the bench, and Kurt crossed his legs, shifting comfortably. "Are you better now? You slept well? Warren and Bobby told me you were sleeping like a baby, so I assumed you were taken care of—,"

                "Yes, it's over now."

                "Some things are hard to forget," Kurt spoke again, slowly. "Some things… might not feel better for a long time. But they will be, eventually. You must have faith in that, that things will feel better, eventually. The peace will return. Sometimes, it takes longer than others. But always, it returns."

                He sat there in silence after that, next to his teammate, Errol Flynn, the priest. Until the sun set. When Kurt made no move to leave, he looked over at him again, and saw him still staring off, into the west, eyes eerily aglow. 

                Finally, he asked, "What… what were they doing, Kurt?"

                Nightcrawler shook his head, displacing some of his unruly dark mop of hair, and pushed it back absently. A boyish, guarded sort of gesture, out of place in a man with such poise, such natural elegance. Yet, endearing. Things like that were what made the man approachable. That and his million dollar grin, of course. "It was worse than we'd imagined. Aside from kidnapping random men, for her own personal uses, they were systematically taking out anyone they deemed an enemy to their cause of… utter insanity, as far as I can tell. And to make matters more complicated, they were an all mutant group, which is why they rejected Bridget in the first place. I'm convinced that she knew nothing of their violent methods, but was attracted to the strength of their reputation alone. If they managed to be intelligent enough about their activities to avoid notice from the authorities, there's no reason a college student would have known about them," and he sighed at that, taking a short break to shake his head sadly. "It is lucky we discovered this when we did. They were expanding, planning to begin a larger campaign, recruit more mutants to their cause, and damage the reputation of respectable feminists, not to mention mutants, all over the planet."

                "Yes. Well," Jean-Paul tried not to sound quite so shocked at the implications of what the man had just told him. He had no idea it had been so serious, thought of Maya as a little girl playing at terror. But no… she was serious. And if they hadn't taken her seriously, if they had underestimated her instead of over planning for their meeting with her… things might have gone very differently. "I suppose she wouldn't be the first to damage the reputation of either, really."

                He laughed a little, quietly, and shook his head again, "_Nein_, I don't believe she would be."

                For a moment, Jean-Paul just watched him. He looked so solemn, at times, this man. Solemn, but rarely outright sad. Yet, something seemed off. "And how are you, Kurt?"

                The other man grinned, and turned his handsome face toward Jean-Paul. "_Viel besser_, now that I see you up and about. And as for myself… there is nothing wrong, so I must feel right."

                "Difficult to fault your logic."

                Kurt laughed at this, and then stood, with that incredible grace that came so easily to him, that Jean-Paul had to fight for. "Things weigh heavier on my soul, the older I get. And tonight, I feel old."

                He nodded, getting the distinct impression that the things he spoke of were not things he wished to let out. Not tonight. So he stood, and started back toward the house with him. "Well," he returned his words of only a few days ago to him now, "if you need me…"

                "I know where to find you," Kurt finished, still smiling. 

                Jean-Paul had never been very good at offering to be the bearer of someone else's concerns and cares, and he knew it. He was selfish. But today, he thought he would like nothing more. 

                Perhaps all he ever really needed was a little sleep.

                He didn't know what sort of perverse streak in him had compelled him to come here, to see her. But he wasn't tired yet, despite the fact that it was near to his usual lights out at midnight. And he couldn't stop thinking about it all. 

                After his talk with Kurt, he'd retreated to his room. He'd wanted to apologize to Jubilee for his thoughtlessness, to thank Warren for taking his classes, for watching over him. But he simply couldn't endure any more tonight. 

                He wasn't sorry that he'd told Annie the things he had. She'd known just what to say. Hell, he hadn't even known what he'd wanted to hear, until the words fell from her lips. And he was glad he'd talked to Kurt as well. The man's presence was calming and disarming, even when he didn't speak. But he simply couldn't take anymore emotion. 

                At least, that's what he'd thought. And then he'd ended up down here. Outside the holding cells. 

                With one swift movement, he opened the door, and walked into the room. And saw her sitting there, against the wall on the bed, her knees drawn up, arms clasped around them. Purple nails digging into her black sleeves. 

                She smiled, when she saw him. It was, quite possibly, the most unpleasant smile he'd ever seen. 

                "I was wondering when you'd come to see me."

                He just looked at her. 

                And found that he couldn't even be angry anymore. Had she taken that from him too?

                "No hello for me?"

                He continued just looking at her.

                And he felt nothing. Not anger, not fear, not pain. Just… cold. It was cold in here, wasn't it?

                The smile slid off her face, slowly, as he stared. "What the fuck do you want, Jean-Paul?"

                He took a deep breath, suddenly very uncomfortable with his name coming from her mouth. "I came to tell you something."

                "Oh, I thought you'd come to taunt me, to prove that you were now the dominant one."

                "No," he shook his head slightly. "I just came to tell you, you were wrong about me."

                She laughed, and it was like nails scraping over a chalkboard to his ears. "I know you, asshole. You know I know you. I know who you love, I know what you want, I know every man you've ever slept with, every villain you've ever fought, and every insult you've ever hurled at another human being. I seriously doubt that I am wrong about you."

                "I'm not like you."

                Again, the laugh. "Oh please. Not like me because you belong to the X-Men instead of _Deviyaa_? Give me a fucking break, _Monsieur Sepratiste_. Don't act like you've never wanted to kill for what you believe in, or to protect yourself, your friends. I know you. I _know."_

                He took a few steps closer, wondering why this wasn't making him angry. Why he was so calm. Why he could feel himself breathing slowly in and out, as if her words were bouncing right off of him. His voice low, and utterly composed, he told her the one thing that had saved him. That had proven just how wrong she was. "I've never tortured anyone. I've never destroyed anyone. And if you need any further proof, remember this—you're still alive."

                She narrowed those terrible violet eyes at him. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

                "If I were like you, you'd be dead right now."

                And for that, she had no answer. 

                "Good night, Maya," he told her, quietly, turning to leave now that he'd said what he needed to say. 

                "Don't you walk away," venom dripped freely from her voice, now that she'd found it. "You know you wanted me dead!"

                "Sweet dreams, Maya."

                And he closed the door behind him with a soft click. 

                He knew he would not forget again soon. Kurt had said it, and he had known it. He would not forget what it was like to hold his dying sister in his arms. He would check his stomach for the wound from the whirring blade of the Asgardian trolls once in awhile. He would feel tears come to his eyes, when he thought of the comforting weight, the warmth of Joanna in his arms. And he would look at Bobby Drake, and know _exactly what he was missing. _

                But at least he still had his soul. 

_i'll die before i get to sleep_

_when screaming shadows haunt my dreams_

_i'm cold and soaking wet when daylight shows its face_

_this fear will always get in your way_

_and i can hear so much that i miss it everyday_

_it finds me deep in love and deeper down the lane_

_i don't know too much but i know what i want to say_

_i just need myself_

-Ocean Colour Scene, "I Just Need Myself"

A/N:       _The name _Maya_ is a Sanskrit name, meaning "Illusion." It is the term generally used by Buddhists to describe the untruth of the material world, the illusion we create around us every day. It is all impermanent, a construct of the human mind, of the human ego. Attachment to and belief in this Maya feeds the ego, and blocks the path to enlightenment, to true understanding of the nature of existence. Or, as it were, non-existence. _


End file.
